


Letters

by stringingwords



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Clexa, F/F, Letters, No Smut (sorry), Strangers, Wit, sorta sappy, vintage, weird format
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 21:16:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 26,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20699975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stringingwords/pseuds/stringingwords
Summary: I recently had the pleasure of visiting Emily Dickinson's house, where a bought a book of letters she wrote to Susan. Between the book and Vita and Virginia, my mind is filled with the enchanting letters exchanged by women in the 18th/early 19th centuries, and that was fertile ground for this odd little fic to be born.The structure is a bit different. Each chapter will be a letter from either Clarke or Lexa, with occasional comments from our Heteronormitavely Blinded Historian™. So chapters will be short and provide little snippets into their lives, rather than the full story. I hope that you, like me, will enjoy letting your mind wander where it will. Not really sure where this journey will take us but pretty stoked to experiment with this kind of writing. I hope a few of you enjoy it too.Shoutout to the lovely @anddante for letting me ramble about my convoluted ideas.Disclaimer: I've included some dates to provide an idea of the timeline, but this is set in a purely imaginary world with its own towns, politics, and wars. I have made no attempt to reconcile them with actual historical events. I am going for the style and general feel this era had to it, not historical accuracy.





	1. Chapter 1

Dear C,

I do not expect a reply, for I am well acquainted with farewells. 

I will not say I am sorry I have loved you, nay though my suit, and I with it, fell terribly short and you must by now already be Mrs. 12,000 pounds a year <strike>won’t your mother be proud</strike>.

I will say I am sorry—more angry than sorry perhaps—that ours is a world where fathers connive, daughters are bartered, and the things that quicken the heart matter not at all. But what good are laments? There is nothing for it now. I have lost you. 

You claimed I had your heart, you certainly had mine. Perhaps I have lost that too. 

Never mind its loss, I no longer need it. I too have given myself to duty, promised not to a man, but a nation and its safety. <strike>In this I sometimes dare to think I am in some small way even promised to you. </strike> Training is rigorous and I embrace it, for I find that with a purpose I am less confused, and perhaps more importantly, far too tired for anger.

In short, you have your duty and I have mine. What need have we of love? 

Have no fear, I shan’t return.

Once yours (but now wholly the Queen’s 6th Regiment’s)

L

Early 1834 

The C for whom the letter was originally intended was most likely Costia von Maron, soon to be Lady Highcliffe. From the date of von Maron’s wedding to Lord Highcliffe, (the grandest event the town of Lunn could ever claim a distant part in, the wedding itself having taken place in Highcliffe’s own city Maelin), and the Griffin family’s move to the Clifford’s old estate (a house in which Costia von Maron was known to take tea on occasion), the letter is estimated to have remained unopened for 12-14 months, until Clarke Griffin, the Griffin’s only daughter and heiress to their moderate income, found it in a dusty corner of the old parlor.


	2. Chapter 2

Dear L,

You may think it strange and entirely too forward of me to reply to your letter (two things of which I have admittedly been accused of on more than one occasion). But a girl cannot be blamed for opening a letter when she sees her initial, and no other designation, on the envelope (so say I at least, and all my friends agree). And once a letter is half read, well it would be downright rude not to finish it. Mother certainly raised me better than that.  


That is how I came to be at the end of your letter, none the wiser about whom it was intended for or whether you, dear poor stoic sender, actually meant her to receive it (for, forgive my assumptions, but it did seem the kind of letter one might need to write, but perhaps had better not send).  


But alas, I have told the end before the beginning.  


Let us start again. I found your letter on Saturday last in a corner of the parlor in the old house which is now my new home and was much distressed by your tragedy (for yes, love lost is always a tragedy, so say the poets). After much deliberation I have decided to write to you and ask whether you wish me to forward it and if so, to whom.  


I must admit that in offering to do so my motives are not entirely unselfish, for your mention of the 6th Regiment did not escape me. You see, to us small-town dwellers, the fighting at the border and the savages said to lie beyond, are shrouded in mystery. If therefore in exchange for my small efforts on your behalf, you saw fit to send me a snippet or two of the goings-on at the front, why I would be forever in your debt. (If it helps, you could always imagine you are writing to the C for whom it seems you were once willing to do a great deal, and I shall play along for the sake of a good story). Say you, will, dear soldier, and you shall find in me a most receptive audience.  


In any case, you have my thoughts and admiration as you strive for our nation's protection. 

Not once yours, I’m afraid, and still entirely mine own,  
C 

Spring 1835  
It is not known exactly how Griffin managed to get the letter to the elusive L at the front. One popular theory perpetuated by Griffin and her friends in their correspondence is that her friend Raven Reyes, a resourceful and mischievous young woman, met a war messenger in the local tavern who she then challenged to an archery contest. Rumor has it that, upon winning the contest that took place with borrowed bows and a lopsided target painted on the back of the tavern, she charged him on his honor that he deliver the letter no matter how Herculean a feat it proved yo be. But historians general agree that this tale is far too fanciful to merit serious consideration, especially the notion that a woman of Reyes’s standing would be seen in a tavern cavorting with the working class. It is likely that Griffin simply addressed the letter to L of the 6th Regiment and sent it by regular post, hoping for the best.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa's first letter to Clarke

Dear C  
(Or should I say My Lady, for you do write like a lady.)

Tis strange to read of an old home in a new hand, especially one bearing the ghost of a life long dead. I cannot imagine how you came to be in possession of my old letter, but I do thank you for writing to me before trying to find its intended recipient. You are wise to say that it is the kind of letter best left undelivered, and hindsight makes me feel the fool for ever putting ink to paper. T’would perhaps be prudent to destroy it now, lest some other hapless victim happen upon its weary, melodramatic contents.

As for your missive, tis a wonder it made it into my hands at all. You caused quite the stir in our bleak outpost, every man with even a tenuous claim to the letter L vying for a chance to read it. T’was only when I heard it was from Lunn that I thought it might be mine.

As requested, I shall repay your kindness and discretion <strike>mostly to atone for that sorry scrawl your eyes had the misfortune to behold</strike> and tell you what I can of the front. 

Things are quiet these days. The winter snows block the mountain passes and do more to guard the border than any of us could. So much so that it seems thankless to complain of the cold. The spring thaw has begun, however, and ere long we will begin patrolling in earnest once again. I dare not say more lest this be intercepted, but all is fairly mundane aside from the occasional skirmish, and we settle into our routines. We rise, we eat, we train, we watch and work to assure the camp’s functionality, and we sleep when possible.

It seems the worst of the war is now behind us. Azgeda has been quiet these past months, and the nation can rest easy knowing that the border is secure. 

I hope this satisfies your curiosity.

Cordially,  
L

June, 1835  
As any history book will tell you, the winter of 1834-5 brought a lull in the conflict between Polis and Azgeda, both sides mostly content to warily eye each other across the border in the aftermath of the infamous battles of early 1834, which claimed over 26,000 lives on both sides. It is in this time of tenuous ceasefire that L writes his first letter to Griffin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I cringe at L being referred to as a man too. But as I warned, historians always seem to assume the hetero.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke is dissatisfied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating from my phone on the train. Here’s hoping it’s not a mess.

Dear L,

I’m afraid that while your training must’ve undoubtedly produced a fine soldier, it has all but smothered your story-telling ability. Indeed, had I desired more government-sanctioned reports, Prof. Kane’s monthly speeches provide more stale updates on the situation at the border and our overall relations with Azgeda than one knows what to do with.

It was my hope that your account would offer something a bit more___colorful. Perhaps a glimpse into the human experience underneath the numbers and political speak.

Allow me to demonstrate with a trivial example of my own in the hopes that it might yet awaken the storyteller within you.

I attended a dinner party on Saturday last. An official account of the evening would attest that it was all perfectly lovely. The guests arrived promptly and, after some light pleasantries and drinks in the parlor, were led into the dining room where a 4-course meal was served by competent staff. Conversation was appropriately stimulating, the guests were perfectly pleasant to each other, and at the close of the evening all professed their anticipation for the next such gathering. 

Now I shall tell you what really happened. The parlor was slightly too cramped to accommodate the number of guests, and as Mr. Cunningham turned to over-eagerly greet Miss Millicent, he sloshed his (3rd or 4th) whisky across Mrs. Hampstead’s new Italian painting, which she pretended did not devastate her, and we all pretended to believe.

Following this ordeal, we were all ushered into the dining room a good half hour early, so that when Mrs. Hampstead rang for dinner (which we pretended arrived promptly) the harried staff carried in vegetables hewn into rough chunks and half-raw rice. The third course was a specially fermented cheese (quite interesting in fact) about which Mrs. Dudley, being over 60 and thus allowed to speak her mind, declared that if she wanted to eat something with a hint of vomit she would visit her grandchildren instead.

Speaking of stink, Bellamy Blake (the hostesses godson, and thereby exempt from common courtesy) arrived halfway through the first course properly attired (though unproperly buttoned-up) but smelling faintly of sweat and poultry (a romp in the barn before dinner wouldn’t be beyond him). Naturally, we had to wait for him to finish the two courses he’d missed (while absolutely avoiding any and all eye contact with the empty dishes before us) before the third could be served. In an exemplary feat of situational awareness, he proceeded to eat at a glacial pace while lecturing his godmother on the proper time of year in which to serve lamb (not summer apparently!)

Dessert was vanilla tarts. Or so we thought. I had it from Raven who had it from the cook’s hand, that cherry pie was originally on the menu, but the delivery man’s horse was frightened at the eleventh hour and the cherries are currently decorating the mud patch in Mrs. Hampstead’s front yard.

So you see, dear soldier, if something as mundane and inconsequential as a dinner party provides one with a range of little insights, how much more riveting would your world prove if I could but see it through your eyes. Would your do me the courtesy?

I hope I do not ask too much.

Expectantly,  
C

P.S.: If you’re sticking to L then no need for My Ladys or Miss So and Such. C it shall be.

June,1835  
Here Clarke gives us a glimpse of into her social life. The Hampsteads, Dudleys, and Blakes were among the 12 founding families of Lunn, and Mr. Cunningham owned the main coal mine just outside the town’s perimeter. So although Clarke makes light of her evening, likely for L’s amusement, her presence there tells us that her family was welcomed by the little town’s elite.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa tries harder.

Dear C,

Upon reading your account, I can but say I am glad I enlisted, for I would take a battle over one of your dinner parties any day. The fare here may be simpler and the whisky scarce, but our code of conduct is clearer, and soldiers are well-known for cutting stiff, awkward frames in more gentle company.

I am sorry to hear that you found my last letter so lacking. Indeed, I had hoped to satisfy your curiosity while omitting some of the less desirable particulars of our lives, but if you really must have them, I see no harm in obliging.  


I am sure that with but a little effort you can imagine the scene of our camp. Our banners are patched and torn, uniforms no longer the beautiful costumes meant to inspire the patriotism that breeds envy in those not departing to die for their country. It’s functional; attires meshed together from the pieces that’ve survived months of fighting and hard living, complemented by whatever scraps we can scavenge from battlefields or supply trains. My own kit consists of a hole-ridden undershirt, pants that have been patched in too many places to count, and a faded coat that belonged to one of my late friends—at once the warmest and coldest thing I own. 

Azgeda dress to inspire fear, faces tattooed with ice patterns so that they seem carved from the white expanses that surround us. Some wear the jawbones of their latest kills, perhaps hoping that embodying our fallen comrades’ skeletons will imbue them with their power. 

To my regiment though, they are old foes, familiar as a mother’s lullaby. We paint our own faces in response; black patterns that mingle with our war cries and make them fear the dark gods that have come for their lives. I suppose war is essentially a gruesome kind of masquerade ball. We don our characters and join the dance, hoping to last the evening, praying our partners won’t unmask us and see the feeble sack of flesh beneath.

The first thing newcomers notice is the smell. The camp smells of oil and steel, of smoke and gruel and people; the sweat and excrement of a thousand unwashed bodies at work. You can always find an army by its smell.  


I hardly notice it anymore. When I lead a scouting party, the smell of frosty pine and dew seems foreign. On return, the reek smells of home. 

The battlefield smells too. Of blood, yes, though not yet death. That comes later. Mostly of shit. Did you know men’s bowels release as they die? <strike>That’s one way of leaving your parting mark on the world, I suppose. </strike>When they wait for death too, wet behind the ears and unused to facing its ghastly countenance. I’ve learned fear has a smell; sweat and urine and defecation.

There is beauty in battle too. Beyond the stink and the gore; the terror as Hades clamors for your life and you struggle impossibly to deny him that. There is a savage clarity, an incomparable power as you charge and thrust and parry, euphoric triumph in the last moment when horror shines in your enemies’ eyes and you know they are dead already, the killing of their breathing corpse a mere formality. There is brute force and there is grace; and sometimes sheer luck. It is ferocious and animalistic and heroic, the perfect stage for acts both epic and inhumane. 

After a battle, when I can hardly move for exhaustion and the sight of my comrades’ bodies mangled with that of their killers makes me wretch, I sometimes want to flee. The weight of the dead presses down on me and I yearn to get as far away as I can, hoping to starve the monster within me that relishes such bloodshed. Perhaps then the ghosts it’s slaughtered would cease to haunt me. 

Though if I’m honest I know I don’t truly want to be free of them. A part of me welcomes the haunting as my price for the roll I’ve played in this terror. I owe the dead that. Killing should never be easy.

But just before battle, when my blood is up and my ears filled with battle cries, I’m at the edge of a precipice and I can but fall. The rage of Ares burns in my veins and I must strike out or else be this day’s sacrifice. 

But alas, I have perhaps said too much. When one is not in the habit of writing to others, a blank page seems but an extension of one’s ungated thoughts. And having an incorporeal stranger for an audience is a new and rather freeing experience. At the very least, it cannot be said that this is a polished report. 

Sincerely,  
L

July 1885  
The few pictures of Azgedan troops that survived do indeed show that facial markings L describes here, though they do not appear to be tattoos per say. Experts posit that they are intricate scars instead. Accounts of Azgedan culture describe ceremonial rituals in which scali, short carving knives, are used to ‘etch a warrior's deeds into their skin that the gods may know them when they die’. Some believe Azgedan warriors had their families’ unique markings carved into their faces when they came of age, and then added to the pattern after some, but not all, battles. Perhaps only some victories were deemed worthy of ceremonial tributes. 

L’s account of his regiment’s warpaint was originally thought to be unfounded. However, a recently authenticated war journal from an Azgedan soldier in this region claims that, ‘They charge from the dark, eyes burning from the black flames on their faces…when the Wolves of Polis ride our hearts turn to ice. We know the demons will claim their share of brave men.’ This record is oddly similar to L’s description. Extensive documents show that Azgeda did not fear Polis, but considered their warriors equal, if not superior, to those of Polis. This soldier’s description then, does not reflect a general fear Azgedans had of Polis, but a more specific fear of the quasi-mythical group of warriors he calls the Wolves of Polis.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa makes a capture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. It's been a busy week.

Dear L,

Your words have captured my mind. You write of gore and heroism and my heart quickens, skin prickling at the thought of your fear and power. I see you as if you stood before me, a grave, melancholy figure standing on a gutted battlefield, pain churning just beneath the stoic surface as the remnants of Ares’s passion ebb from your body. Your handsome features (and yes, I must think you handsome now, for you do write handsomely when you make the effort) set grimly on duty now that the fire has calmed. I see you so clearly, I could almost paint you.

What burdens you must bear, my dear, brave soldier! How dearly you pay for the freedom we scarcely know how to squander. It must be but a small comfort to know that an untried (but I shan’t say shallow) girl thinks of you from the safety of her bedroom. But I do. And beg the gods I don’t believe in that you might yet best Hades times without measure.

I read a portion of your letter aloud in the parlor last night, and mother was appalled beyond belief. If she had had her way, I would’ve been banned from continuing our correspondence on pain of being shipped off to live with my uncle. But I argued (and quite convincingly so, I might add) that it was my patriotic duty to raise the troops’ morale. She may yet have gotten her way (war not being a suitable topic for a woman’s delicate constitution and all) had not my father come out on my side. I suspect he’s just as enthralled with your account as I am, and later asked me for some more particularities regarding your regiment and whether there had really not been any fighting this winter. Still, if you could add a line or two about any little pleasure you take in my letters, it shall help my cause a great deal.

As for me, I scarcely know what to write that does not sound exceedingly frivolous compared to your reality. Summer is in full swing (which you naturally must have deduced on your own), and with it the same picnics and parties and suitors. Amid the chatter and entertainments, I find my thoughts are often on you. I wonder whether this is a good or bad day for you; whether you are covered in sweat and grime from battle or training or work, or whether you sit calmly, engaged in whatever pastimes fill your quieter moments. I wonder how time passes for you, whether the day is over before it begins, or stretches out, boundless in mockery. Above all, I wonder if you are safe and whole. 

‘Tis a strange thing, being so preoccupied by one I do not know. But perhaps the not knowing is itself what feeds my wonderings. In any case, you see I do not lie when I have said you have captured my mind. 

Be well, my friend (if I may call you that).

C  


July 1835 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa describes herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll let Lexa apologize for my delay this time.

Dear C,  
I crave your pardon for my delayed response. Trust, it was not that I lacked the will to write, for I have your letters always with me and draw great pleasure from their contents. It was merely a matter of opportunity. With the snow melted I have scarce been at camp, for the maze of mountain passes must now be manned and my horse and I have been in great demand, leading scouting trips and scurrying from one outpost to another. 

If you must think of me then <strike>and I must confess it does me good to think so</strike>, think of me doing what I love best: riding as fast as I dare on traitorous trails which shift from day to day. My horse is brasher still than I am, and we make a rather rash pair, I’m afraid. Still, it often takes the foolhardy to brave the untamed, and I am rarely happier than when we’re charging along a narrow pass, framed by plunging cliffs and overhanging crags, eyes squinted against the sun. It’s a different kind of alive. I feel both smaller and greater here than anywhere else in the world.

I feel it my duty, however, to warn you not to think me handsome <strike>however flattering that might be</strike>. Imagine, rather, a raccoon bred with a tree frog, if their strange offspring had the rather toad-like habit of being frequently covered in mud. That ought to give you a fairer picture of the sort of countenance I possess. 

As for your mother, I entreat you to reassure her that your letters bolster not only my spirits, but that of my companions, however unintentionally on my part. A fellow scout (Lincoln by name, and my friend ‘til this morning when he plucked your letter from my hand) was thoroughly entertained by your account of the dinner party and said in passing that you sound ‘short but delightful’, which may seem an odd comment until you consider that he towers over most men. His discourtesy notwithstanding, I mean only to illustrate that your pen bears the weight of not only my morale, but that of my entourage, nay the whole regiment, for our good humor is spread like ripples. So you see, you really must continue to write, with the fate of Polis hanging in the balance.

And think not your accounts trivial, for I would be charmed to hear more about the happenings in your life. I do not find them frivolous. On the contrary. A life where one rises and goes about their day, meeting its little challenges and delights without fear of pain or death is the very reason I stand on this border today. And oh it does me well to hear of it. 

But I have gone on and the candle is down to its stub. I will end this now that it might leave with the morning rider. 

Yours in friendship,  
L  


August 1835  
The mountain passes of which L spoke were considered death traps to horses. Not only would shifting rocks and holey bridges increase the danger of plummeting to one’s death exponentially when on the back of a half-ton beast, but the slightest scare could cause the horse to buck and topple its rider into the abyss. Military horses trained for combat were rarer and often more valued than human recruits, and it would be a rare thing for a soldier to risk his horse in the manner described here. 

Rare, but valuable. With a mountainous border of 312 km between Polis and Azgeda, a fast rider who was unafraid of taking these trails could mean the difference between winning and losing a battle and would’ve been among the regiment’s most valuable assets. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke shows her talent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so tired from race training I feel like this one is probably full of typos. Apologies.

Dear L,

(Lucas? Leonard? Lancaster? Lionel, perhaps, for a brave man deserves a brave name.)

Please accept my deepest apologies for my erroneous assumptions about your looks. Indeed, so embarrassed was I by my error that I have endeavored to make amends in the best way I know how. Which is why I’m sending you a portrait of your likeness, lovingly crafted by yours truly, which I hope will make up for my faux pas and ensure our continued friendship.

As for your (rather presumptuous) friend Lincoln, would you kindly inform him that his towering stature does not change the average height of the population (at least not by much), and I would have him know that it is he, not I, who is of abnormal length, mine own being perfectly (yes, perfectly) average, thank him very much.

I must say, dear Lionel, your rides sound exhilarating. Slicing the wind as you race on paths that have no business being there in the first place. How majestic it must all feel. How indomitable. Are you ever afraid of falling? Or do you relish the danger? Do you seek it out, flies to it on your horses hooves? I sometimes do (though I never admit it). I’ve found that some danger can be equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.

I’ve always wanted to learn to ride. Of course, mother insisted that it must be side saddle (she’s intent on making me a lady and demands I play the part until I’ve earned the title) and the few times I tried when I was younger the horses were far too skittish for a novice to master. One bad tumble too many had me trading in my spurs for the bow and arrow. But perhaps someday I can prevail upon someone with a tamer beast to teach me. 

I’m afraid on my side there isn’t much of any consequence to report. I have a new suitor, though that hardly counts for news these days. Finnley, whose hair would certainly have won the Noblemen’s Curls contest (had such a thing existed. T’would certainly have provided me and my friends with sardonic material to last the year). He is not altogether terrible company though, less self-aggrandizing and quicker to laugh than most, and when he accompanies me, I sometimes forget tis but a duty to put up with him. Above all, he is kind, and I suppose if one must marry kindness is a trait that ages well.

Still, for now I am none too eager to give my hand away. I’m not quite done using it yet and can think of far better pastimes for it than simply modeling some man’s diamond. Mother must have her way eventually, of course, but for now, I am content to play coy and retain my freedom.

And with that, I leave you, my friend. 

Safe roving. 

C

August 1835  
Included with this letter was a cartoonlike rendition of L’s description of himself, a caped raccoon/frog hybrid featuring frog eyes poking out of a raccoon mask and furry webbed feet. The drawing is obviously meant to be satirical, but even in play, Griffin’s talent and attention to detail is undeniable. Which is why this very drawing now hangs in the Museum of Polis alongside some of her most prominent works, on permanent loan from her godson Aden du Bois.  


The Finnley Griffin mentions is Sir Finnley Collins, a lesser noble who, notwithstanding, was considered the catch of not only Lunn, but the surrounding cities, due to his classic good looks and renowned charm. His infatuation with Griffin is well-documented, and for a time many thought their eventual wedding inevitable. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa gets her hackles up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was brought to you by: Dog's snoring.  
Can't sleep with it. Can't live without it.

Dear Cheeky,

Alas, despite your valiant attempts at unveiling my name, I’m afraid I have always been more wolf than either lion or man.

The drawing however; never before has my essence been captured so completely. It’s uncanny, to see one’s own soul staring back from the page. I shall henceforth use it as my official portrait. Nay, my banner! How the enemy will quake as they see such a creature unfurled and approaching. I daresay its fearsome countenance could win us victories ere a blow is struck. 

Which may come in handy soon enough. There have been stirrings, Azgedan troops spotted far closer to our borders than they have been in months. No battles yet, aside from occasional skirmishes between scouting parties, but my guess is that they’re maneuvering for an attack. Naturally, Queen Nia maintains they are just military exercises and our cease-fire holds, but military exercises don’t usually require the displacement of heavy artillery. 

Nonetheless, Atalanta and I have not yet been in serious danger this year, so I cage my unease for the time being. Vowing to be prepared when the time comes.

Speaking of Atalanta, I cannot believe you had such buffoons as horse-riding instructors. On behalf of myself and my equine-loving forefathers, I am appalled. Firstly, spurs are a mild form of torture employed only by jocks for whom the horse has no respect. Any half-sensible oaf knows horses’ spines are particularly sensitive and feel even the smallest of their riders’ movements, so making one’s wishes known to the horse without stabbing their sides is none too difficult. Secondly, side-saddle is an abomination which unbalances both horse and rider and curtails most thornier maneuvers. If you ask me, it’s nothing short of an elaborate ruse devised to keep women from ever riding truly well. 

Please (and here, on my honor, I must insist) inform me if you ever wish to take up the saddle again, and I shall recommend a rider who actually knows what she’s about. 

<strike>Apologies for my forcefulness, but some things simply must be put right.</strike>

As for Count Curls, I can imagine why you’d rather keep your hands to yourself. Talented hands they are too, based on the little evidence I’ve received. Why shouldn’t they desire pursuits grander than passively showcasing a man’s jewels. I say do what you wish rather than what they wish of you, for tis not they who must live with the constraints they would so readily impose.

But what do I know of polite company and their expectations? It has been a while.

Your friend,

L.

P.S. Lincoln is duly chastised and begs your perfectly-statured self’s pardon. 

August 1835

Although L hints here at his family’s past with horses, it was a fairly common trade, and so not much help in pinning down his origins. Polis was made up of many clans, and horses were important in nine of the twelve. From his writing, we can judge he is well-educated and likely came from a middle-to-upper class family, so probably a horse-breeder’s son, rather than a stable boy, though presumably not a noble, as his suit to Costia von Maron was evidently lacking. 

L. here likens himself to a wolf, which is generally understood as a bit of a tongue in cheek allusion to the infamous Wolves of Polis, offering further confirmation that he was a member of this deadly pack


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke's incursion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is long overdue. My life is crazy at the moment and my mind is all over the place. I hope it doesn't suck.

Dear Lupus,

It’s settled then. 

I am delighted to hear that my art will be of such great use to our nation’s campaign. I feel it only right that you, in turn, give credit where credit is due when our enemies flee before you (A monument would be an unnecessary extravagance, but a plaque or Medal of Honor would do nicely). 

In all seriousness, I fear you are right about Azgeda; though my foolish hope still clings to the thought that the war may be over and you safe. I would bid you avoid danger, if it were not insulting to ask such a thing of a warrior. Instead, I ask only that you crave life more than your foes, if only that I might read your words again. Perhaps this hunger to live might bring you through the worst of it whole.

It may help you to know that I’ve decided I’ll have none teach me to ride save you, so if you do not return I shall ne’er be seated on a horse again. And what would become of equestrianism then? Therefore, war on, dear soldier, but war to win.

Meanwhile, I’ve been keeping busy on my end. We too, wage wars on the home front. Our mission? There is a new book in the Iliantra Hobbs series. If you are not familiar with it it is the tale of a young woman in a post-apocalyptic world who battles monsters and unites disparate clans to face their greatest foes (It seems that once the civilized world is ended women are again free to play any role they choose. It almost makes one wish for calamity). Mother, of course, was appalled by the notion and forbad me from going to the library, and father, for all his talk of letting me pursue my interests, agreed that I should be reading things that provide for stimulating dinner party conversations rather than entertaining childish fantasies. 

Well, Lupus, if you know me then you know I am not one to be easily dissuaded once my heart is set on a goal. A plan was hatched. I told mother that I would go to Raven’s to fine-tune the Scotch Reel for the upcoming dance (a deceit, I know, but when one is faced with injustice one must adapt to survive). From there we planned to pop off to the library and be back before any got wind of our absence. Mother thought it a grand idea and all was going to plan, only when I arrived Raven’s mother and aunt had her, quite literally, tied up in fabric for a new dress they were having made and when her eyes met mine, desperate and pleading for a quick death, I thought our plans thwarted.

By the time we’d extricated ourselves from pins, ribbons, and the talk of marriage, it was nearly four of the clock and, the library closing at four thirty, we found ourselves hurrying down main street, hiking up our dresses and running when we thought we could get away with it, and strolling ladylike whenever our parents’ acquaintances were about (a maddening business, to be sure). When we arrived at the front steps, who do we see but Mrs. Tallfoot, the town busybody and Mother’s primary informant. We only just managed to slip into a side street without being spotted. 

Not ones to be deterred by opposition, we cast about for an alternative solution and fortune smiled upon us. There in the alley, what do we see but a roofer’s ladder. Yes, it was a splinter farm and one or two rungs had long since given up the ghosts, but for once the gloves we wore came in handy. Raven held the old bugger while I scaled precariously to the little window at the top. Thank the gods it was summer and the window had been left open. I’d like to say I hopped nimbly though and landed with nary a sound, but alas, I shall not lie to you. In truth, the sun was in my eyes and I could make out little of the dark interior before, throwing caution to the wind and trusting in the luck that had brought me this far, I jumped (You remember that by this time the town clock was a hair away from striking four thirty and I had no time for prudence).

And this is where fortune failed me. Or perhaps not.

Instead of landing on the old hardwood floors, I smacked straight into Monty Green, who released a cry of alarm before I could silence him. Then we heard the librarian’s footsteps on the stairs, followed by Mrs. Tallfoot’s meddling, high-pitched voice, and Lupus, I feared it was all over. In desperation, I sidled behind a bookshelf, eyes silently begging Monty to improvise.

Well, would you believe it, the boy is quick in a crisis. He seized the nearest book off a shelf, and when the librarian asked him what the noise had been, he calmly explained that he had unexpectedly been taken aback by a startling plot twist. That is when all eyes were drawn to the spine and when ‘A Beginner’s Guide to Falconry’ stared back at us, I froze in conciliatory panic. 

‘You see it was,’ he began lamely, flipping through the book, ‘this picture here that caused my fright.’ and with that triumphantly held up a picture of the mangled arm of some poor sod who had endeavored to train a falcon without a glove.

‘Well,’ said Mrs. Tallfoot disapprovingly, ‘that is hardly cause enough to make any man worth his salt cry out as you did. I can see why you have yet to find a wife.’ and with that she turned on a huff and retreated back downstairs. I tell you, it was all I could do to keep myself from accidentally knocking the hefty ‘A Women’s Guide to Animal Husbandry’ on her head.

The librarian said something about two minutes to closing time and followed her downstairs, and I was left alone to face Monty’s angry eyes glaring from a face ripe with embarrassment. You can imagine I thanked him profusely and promised to talk up his reputation in return. Would you believe that my powers of persuasion were so strong I was able, after all that, to prevail upon him to check out two of Iliantra Hobbs newest books for us? (I can only imagine Mrs. Tallfoot’s face when she saw him heading out of the library with a controversial and decidedly female book.)

In short (for I have gone on terribly and I do apologize), I climbed back down the ladder and Raven and I returned home triumphant with our prize. I shall be sure to offer Monty a dance at the ball and never allow an ill thing to be said about him in my presence again.

Well, Lupus, there you have it, my own little foray into enemy territory. I shall now leave you to your soldiering as I lose myself to fantasy and imagine a world where I too would be allowed such things. 

Be safe, my friend.

C

September 1835

The Iliantra Hobbs series was ahead of its time in that it contained radical notions of gender equality, with women not only standing shoulder to shoulder with men, but leading them into battle. Although this was not a foreign concept to some of the more ‘wild’ clans, it represented everything ‘civilized society’ was trying to do away with and soon became infamous for the small uproar it caused with young ladies. Even women could not read were familiar with Heda’s exploits, as the tales were told and retold, much to their parents’ chagrin. The series was eventually banned by Congressman Pike in early 1836 and destroyed, but a few copies preserved by devoted readers, have made it into our archives today.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa's been thinking.

Dear C.

I applaud your fearless cunning in obtaining your book, though with a prize like that the risks seem more than worth it.

Tis an interesting premise, a post-apocalyptic era in which people are no longer judged on the basis of sex. I sometimes wonder what it would take to crumble the artificial limitations imposed through our invention of society. We bow and curtsy, doff our hats to the right people in the right order. We may aspire to good lives, but only within reason and never beyond our means or station And we must always, always bear in mind to whom we speak, what is said and in what fashion. Propriety first, practicality second. Happiness and natural inclinations? Well, they can make do with the remnants. 

These things seem so dreadfully important, hammered into us through rejections, social sanctions, and the occasional rewards when we manage to comply. And yet, the moment something of true importance is at stake, they vanish away. 

Who cares what arm pushes one away from the oncoming bullet? Or whose body warmth comes from on a freezing night? Will not a man cook for and feed himself rather than starve, or a woman take up whatever weapon is available in her own defense? Any hands, black, white, brown, calloused, or fair, are welcome in lifting a carriage that is stuck fast in the mud. Will a woman who drives be reprimanded for unladylike conduct when a driver is needed to escape villainy? Are not any minds which can stop a destructive engine welcome? 

Why then are these same minds banned from learning what they have the wherewithal to master? Why are some hands predetermined as more suitable for certain tasks than others, regardless of nature’s evidence to the contrary? How bad must it get before we are judged on merit rather than breed or sex or station?

Perhaps your book has the answers. 

Is it sudden? Terror strikes and all at once we are equal. Is it gradual; one rule after another waived as needs demand them? Is it temporary; customs once more shackling the underdogs as soon as the need has passed? 

You say it is a novel, I say why cannot it also be a study in philosophy; for is not all fantasy a chance to explore our humanity in a different setting. Who are we when we are more or less constrained, and is that not already a part of who we are now? Are we not a thousand possibilities woven into one being, a few vying for dominance, but most dormant, unseen and unsuited for our current environments?

Sometimes I lie awake and think of such things; what is, what could be. I think of who I am, who I have had to be, who I will never have the chance to be. I live a thousand lifetimes in my head, and still I do not know myself.

L .

P.S. I would be honored to teach you to ride. With your spirit, I believe you will take to it like a bird to the sky.

September 1835 

This letter was written in different ink colors. The first few paragraphs are in blue, clear and neat as most of L's letters. Then it appears to have been folded for a time as the newer, black writing that follows is written around the deeper creases. The black writing is slightly messier too., perhaps written in poorer light or on a less stable surface. The P.S. is again neatly printed in the habitual blue ink, along with the address. It could be that L wrote the middle part while on one of his scouting missions with a borrowed pen, and then finished and addressed it when he arrived back at the main camp. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa gets a promotion.

Dear C.  
  
I know I have only just sent my last letter, so that this one will chase its predecessor in a race to get to your hands, but I simply had to write.  
  
I have been made commander of the newest battalion.  
  
I did not expect—well, I am young and there are men with far more battle scars than I. But perhaps none with greater dedication. Though honored to be chosen, I am not unprepared for the task. Whatever skill and knowledge I possess will be tirelessly expended to ensure our people’s safety.  
  
Alas, that all sounds more like a political speech than a vow made only to you. But strangely it feels far more binding this way.  
  
Do you know, when I stood there to receive my insignia, flanked by those I have fought and bled with these past years, all I could think of was getting back to my tent so I could write to you. And I thought to myself: how did this happen? When did you, a stranger I have never met, whose name I do not know, gain such a hold in my mind that you were my first thought?  
  
I still do not know the answer. Our minds are strange and our affections stranger. But know that I do think of you and carry you with me always. Perhaps it will make this burden a little lighter.  
  
L.  
  
September 1835  
  
There were three commanders at the front in late 1835. Titus Halesos, a conservative, middle-aged commander who led the right flank and secured the southern border. Indra Arbor, one of the few women still in the army and rumored to be harder than any man. She led a battalion consisting mostly of warriors from the scattered clans and held the north with an iron fist Azgeda simply could not shift. And lastly William Copac, possibly in his twenties and certainly no older than thirty, took command of the center battalion when Commander Henry Andersson fell in battle. By early January, this unwavering young commander had risen to lead the bulk of the army and earned quite a reputation for his strategic brilliance and uncanny intuition. Indeed, it is largely due to his victories that Polis won the war.  
  
If L truly was made commander, and the insignia found with his letters adds credence to this claim, it is likely that he was none other than Commander William Copac himself (L perhaps the initial for Liam). Making these letters the closest thing we have to an autobiography of one the biggest players in 19th century history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titus's surname may or may not be an anagram for asshole. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke has mixed feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry about the delay. I was moving this last month and between that and work it was all I could do to keep up. I hope to be more faithful with updates again (although living with one's gf does come with its own share of distractions ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ ).

Dear Commander,

I was thrilled to read of your promotion—and also strangely proud, though I know I had no hand in it. ‘Tis a wonder to think of one I know with this odd kind of intimacy we've built commanding a battalion into battle. But I have no doubt it was merited. Your spirit is noble and profound, and your conduct, by all indications, brave and fair, the very qualities one needs when leading men and dispensing justice on our enemies. They could not have a better commander and I cannot wait to hear of your success. 

But alas I am—selfishly, secretly, shamefully—a little disappointed as well. And not only because my would-be riding instructor now has far more pressing matters to attend to. Your words have unearthed the very heart of me, rushed in and tantalized thoughts not yet fully formed, and I yearn to know the one who wrote them. Would I find the same haunting beauty in your eyes? Alas, I must wait, for as commander I can only imagine you must now persevere in this war long after it is worn and weary, and I do not relish the thought. 

And what of your safety, dear Lupus? For if I know you at all I know that you will not hesitate to lead by example, your iron will charging into the very heart of the fight even as the price on your head soars. Who, I ask will fight to protect your valiant flame as it roars challenges to our foes? Do say you will take care, for your life has come to mean more to me than most others.

With that I feel I should leave you, for fear that speaking my mind more openly would give way to treasonous thoughts. (It does not do to wish for one’s own happiness over the welfare of one’s nation). 

As always, I send you my dearest thoughts. May they be a shield in battle, willing the gods to cherish your safety as I do. You do us all proud, my dear friend.

Affectionately,  
C.  


September 1835  
It is clear that, had Griffin wanted to, she could’ve easily used this information to discover L’s true identity, a thing the commander undoubtedly knew when sharing the news. Perhaps it was a gift of sorts, an unspoken sign of trust to reveal this clue to his identity. It is unknown whether Griffin used this clue, as she alludes to nothing and continues to address her letters to ‘L’ or 'Commander', but it is hard to imagine someone of her temperament resisting the temptation. Unless she too, as another unspoken sign of trust, decided to wait for him to reveal his own identity, thinking it his secret to tell. It is no doubt a romantic, if unlikely, thought.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke 'meets' Anya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays, my lovelies. May you all find something that brings you joy.

Dear C., 

I am humbled by your concern and cautiously delighted by the affection woven into your words. You write of standing face to face and I dare not hope, lest the hope of seeing you make a coward of me. 

Alas, there is no more room for prudence.

The frequency of Azgedan raids has multiplied in the last weeks. Queen Nia no doubt sees the ascension of a new commander, and an untested one at that, as an opportune time for attack and is poking at our borders to find the easiest point of entry. But I too have plans and intend to keep her army too occupied for any incursion. 

I dare not say more here.

I can tell you, though, that my safety is in good hands. Lincoln and Gustus, who have fought alongside me throughout my campaign, are never far from my person. In truth, I sometimes wish I could take a walk without the echo of their footsteps behind me. Multiple shadows can sometimes make one feel quite mad. 

And then there is Anya.

It is said that the Trikru clan produces our fiercest warriors and that their women outmatch any men. If you met Anya you would believe both. She is swift and fearless; the embodiment of deathly precision. Silent when necessary and snarly when cross <strike>a useful trait when the line of petty squabblers is unending</strike>. She does not so much hold weapons as assimilate them and can fight by ear as well as sight. Above all, she is unquestioningly loyal and sworn to protect my life, a duty she takes so seriously I am often called to intervene in her ruthless strategies to protect me. All this to say, when I charge into battle, any foe unlucky enough to be in my direct vicinity sees a dramatic drop in their life expectancy. 

So do not overly fret for my death, dear C., for ere it comes we would rip such a mighty hole in the Azgedan forces that it could well win us the war. In which case, I would say I have done my duty.

And yet, even as I dare not hope, sometimes, in the wee hours when my counselors have left me and my thoughts have calmed to embers, I find myself thinking of you. Not picturing you exactly, for I cannot know your face, but feeling you. It is strange to write it, but your presence has grown so in my mind that it is as if I know your face; a face I have long gazed upon so that I know its every shade and aspect, a face I know so well my fingers twitch at the impossible memory of grazing your skin.

You must think me mad. And in so doing, maintain your own sanity.

Be well.

L.  


September 1835

Anya Du Bois, sworn protector of Commander Copac, towered far taller than her 1.7 meters and is said to have struck fear in the hearts of friends and foes alike. Bodyguard, confidant, and second-in-command, she was both fiercely loyal to the young commander and unafraid to challenge him when she saw fit (see Trish, 2012 and Methryn, 2015 for more detailed accounts of her feats). Her statuesque figure and Trikru warpaint undoubtedly stood out in a mostly male army that had become largely uniform in its dress and discipline. It is likely that she used the myth that surrounded both her person, and that of the daring young commander, to foster fear in the hearts of any would-be assassins. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this pretty late (as gf snoozes on my lap) and am likely too tired to edit it properly. Sorry for any mistakes.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke is envious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year! I hope you all got some time to yourselves and filled it with things you enjoy.

Dear Lupus,

If you are mad, I am half mad alongside you, for you are ever in my thoughts. It does me good to know that you are protected. 

And by such a protector! I can picture her; fierce, fiery, formidable. How I love the thought of a woman who stands on her own merits, beholden to none but the duty she herself has chosen; her life’s path carved with her own strength of will. How glorious that must be, how noble. A woman who is her own master, a woman with power that meets and exceeds that of men. 

I too would be fearless if given that chance. True, if your protection rested on my skill it would be a sad day for Polis, but I have other skills that could serve our nation. Skills that mold and rust as I am set about by a new onslaught of suitors. How they preen and posture, infatuated by their own charm. And how I tire of it. O Lupus, would that I were free to choose a pursuit rather than a pursuer. For once to feel like my feet walk where I alone send them. But that is not the woman’s place in my world. We are objects to be chased and hunted and eventually claimed. The most we can hope for is to have some say in who our reins are passed to. 

I envy your Anya. And I envy you, Commander. Courtship failed you and you were free to escape and find your own path. Whereas I must wait for some man’s path to find me.

But away with my grousing. I shall not trouble you with my little travails. I cannot wait to hear more of your plans. Do you know, I have taken to accosting my father every evening for some little news of the front, in the hopes that his words may tell me of your victories. It is a rather roundabout way, to be sure, but your need for secrecy has made a beggar of me. Naturally, Mama is appalled by my sudden keen interest in the war, and that is a small triumph in itself. 

I do prattle on so. I shall leave you, my friend.

Raise hell.

C.

October 1835   
It might seem strange to hear Griffin talk of suitors during the war, but at this stage a tenuous truce with Azgeda was still purported to be in place, the raids and skirmishes blamed on ‘rogue’ bands with no allegiance or orders from Azgeda. This conveniently allowed nobles to avoid enlisting while maintaining their honor, which most chose to do. The army consisted mostly of the working class, who saw it as a (mostly stable) supply of decent food and clothing, an escape from poverty, and the border clans such as Trikru, whose lands and livelihoods were directly threatened by invaders. Thus, in Polis’s larger cities, the routines and courtships among nobles continued undeterred. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa does a little stargazing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm tired and a little tipsy so...who knows what this is.

Dear C.,

You say you would be fearless; I say you already are. Your mind brims with daring thoughts and you may yet carve out a place in this world in which to be free.

You long for news of the front, but my job is generally more mundane than you might imagine. Gone are the days of frenzied riding from camp to camp. Before a battle there are weeks of planning and positioning, troops to train, supplies to move and distribute and defenses to build. Sometimes I think my role might be no different than that of a business manager or magistrate. Except the stakes are higher, of course. And I have not yet learned how to feel.

I do not know how to care enough to keep my men from unnecessary harm, while not too much that I cannot ask them to risk their lives. How do I know them well enough that I can capitalize on their strengths whilst remaining distant enough that the specter of their mangled or lifeless bodies does not rend me in twain? 

Anya tells me the sooner I crush my own heart the better, lest Nia use it against me. But I see my own hopes and sense of duty shining back at me from their eyes and find that I cannot. Nor am I convinced I should. I suspect this is something no other can teach me. Perhaps in the end it is no decision at all, one’s heart simply breaks steadily with each loss until it shuts down and leaves the body to continue without it. A wiser leader would perhaps quit before that happened.

I have just come from the stars. Did you know the clans have different names for them? Some see a dragon, others a winged horse or a snake, as if they were a canvas onto which one can paint what what they wish for. Much of a clan's culture can be gleaned from their names for the constellations. One person's chariot is another's ship or spoon. 

I see you. I look at them and imagine your eyes tracing patterns others wouldn't think of. and wonder at what your beautiful mind would see. I would like to see them through your eyes.

Tis thoughts like that that make the days a little more bearable.

Do not envy us, Caryatis, for you yourself are a rare and beautiful force. Rather, protect your own singleness of character. Polis needs souls like yours. 

Yours faithfully,

L.

P.S.  
Has the old elm tree on Brascon Road begun to turn yet? I would always look to it for the first hint that fall was upon us. Tis little things like this that sometimes remind me I once had a home.

October 1835  
Once again, this letter appears to have been written in number of different sessions, evidences by the different ink intensities (people tended to write in darker ink when writing by candlelight rather than daylight). L.'s account of his routine coincides with a time of cease-fire, new recruits would have been expected as the harvest came to a close, and he was likely preparing for the onslaught that brought this war to an end.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke grieves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, my gays. I was away for a conference and then had the brilliant inspiration to write the last chapter instead of the next one. Slowly but surely we'll get there.

Dear L.,

Forgive the wait between my letters. Countless times when I couldn’t bear it I have shut myself in my room and taken up the pen, only the words wouldn’t come. No matter that there are things that you are the only one I could bear to think of telling, they are not yet things that have settled into words, and I cannot, for all my trying, will them into English. 

Father has…it is near the end. There was an accident and…oh it matters not, I have told the story a hundred times and have not the strength to tell it again. Recounting it ad nauseam changes nothing. I only wish I could step outside my skin, leave the husk that once was me and enter nothingness. Perhaps that way I could breathe.

Have you ever waited for death? 

I know you have seen your fair share of it, but in battle it must be quick and unexpected. Men go in hale and strong and either come out again that day or not at all. It’s all over before too long. 

I cannot bear the wait. The hours bleed into days and weeks as helplessness swells and stretches into a taunting, suffocating web. I did not believe it at first, there must be something to be done. When he pulled through the first day and the day after that I thought surely the worst was over and he would prove his doctors wrong. Then ire set in as he did not grow stronger as I’d believed, but weaker and more delirious, less and less the man I most love and ever more a broken and dying body enslaved to agony. But now even my anger has numbed like the light in his eyes, as if my very soul seeps out of my body as his life ebbs. I cannot sleep or eat. I cannot bear the company of others. What an inelegant, worthless bunch we have become. Afraid to leave his side, afraid to stay and watch him dwindle, afraid to catch each other’s eyes or speak. 

Acquaintance after acquaintance comes by to praise his deed or offer us their condolences when he cannot be thanked. I cannot bear them. Their prying, pitying eyes sap what little strength I have left. I want to scream and fling their gifts in their faces. I flee to my room before I claw at their faces, where I wallow in a pool of guilt at leaving his side. But sometimes I feel it is not even his side at all, that he has left us days ago and we stand vigil over a breathing corpse. It feels awful to admit it, but I would rather he die than stay like this.

He was such a man, Lupus, brave and kind, tolerant of all, especially me and my foolery. So many of my worthier pursuits were to see the twinkle of pride in is eyes. If I was strong it was because he treated me as such. He is all I know of home, and now that he teeters on death’s doorstep, the house collapses in on me, crushing me with memories of a life that was. I shall never know home again. 

I think waiting for death is killing me too. 

C.

P.S.: I see the elm from my father’s window. I watch as its brilliant orange leaves conquer the lawn and half the street. It is the only thing that gives me any reprieve, for in watching it I can finally weep.

  
November 1835  
Jacob Theodore Griffin made local news when, on October 28th 1835, he rushed into the street to push a child from an oncoming coach. The October 29th newspaper dedicated two full pages to his daring sacrifice, describing in detail how the coach caught and mangled the lower half of his body, sparing the child. He somehow survived the massive blood loss, lingering for 8 days before passing away on the morning of November 4th, likely due to infection. The newspaper printed a page-long obituary, once again extolling his sacrifice and inviting the town to pay homage to its fallen hero. This allegedly sparked mixed reactions in its readership. The girl he saved, Ada Brown, was the 7-year-old daughter of one of the towns masons. While the working class hailed him as a hero and mourned the death of ‘one of the few noble noblemen’, the nobility shook their heads, muttering of wasted sacrifice and noting that one thing not lacking amongst the working class was children. They too mourned, but they mourned his lack of sense above all, pitying the widow and orphan his rashness left in its wake. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. Just the cheery note to end the weekend on, right?


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa offers comfort.

Dear C.,

Would that I could give you more than words, for mine are unwieldy and dare not dream of attempting comfort. Would, rather, that I could sit with you in silence, willing the pain from your body and into mine. I would readily trade myself to buy you a moment’s solace. 

I know death of old, long before I became its messenger. It came for my family ere I had put away childhood and I too waited, a powerless spectator, as it took my parents and the life we’d built. I know the horror of waiting, naught to do but watch the ghastly spectacle as time decays life into something only half alive, then barely there, then gone. How strange it was to be left behind, a dismembered limb with no direction nor will, numb but for the occasional phantom pain. Life seemed so superfluous.

I do not pretend to know your feelings; I cannot. I could tell you that some days I wake up and find that, to my ever-present surprise, I have others yet alive that hold my affections, and all is mostly well. And then I’ll hear a voice in just the tone that rumbles through my chest or catch a scent of gardenias when it rains, and the pain is as raw as it was the first day. Their specters will ever be on the edges of my consciousness.

Your father sounds like a rare and beautiful man. I have no shame admitting that I have spent this night staring at the sky, letting my tears mourn him and his loss to you. We are forever changed by death, molded by the holes torn into our hearts. Some say pain brings depth and beauty, I say to them my parents were deep and beautiful and the world is bleaker in their absence. But the dead are gone and the living clamor for us to play our roles among them. I play mine to honor to their memories. 

And you, C., what greater honor could a man have than you as a daughter? You embody the strength and generosity you saw in him, I feel it in your words and hear it in your tales. Your spirit is formidable, a will destined to shape history. You shun what is when it should not be and reach for what could be instead. And always, your force is tempered with kindness. 

When you think of him, remember his eyes as they looked on you with pride. You are worthy of his legacy.

And if you think of me, think of one who would hold you if they could, honored by the privilege of catching your tears.

Yours always,  
L.

November 1835  
Little is known of Commander Copac’s origins. Apart from his glorious military campaign, which was well-documented by many sources, precious few documents have been found that even allude to his life before the army. This letter is one of those rare sources. Though it does not shed light on his family’s roots, it may give us some insight into his temperament and values. Did being orphaned at as a child lead a young man to finding a sense of belonging in the army? Did his fearlessness spring from putting honor above the inevitability of death? He claims the deaths of his parents did not bring depth and beauty, but they may have brought the bravery and disregard for his own safety that won Polis the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve gotten some questions over the months about Lexa, aka whether she is William Copac, why she chose to live as a man while women are allowed in the army, etc. These are things that won’t necessarily come up in the letter format I’m using. I’ve answered some things in the comments section, but I thought I’d share some of the background info that I have in mind when writing. Since Lexa spoke a bit about her parents in this chapter, I thought it’d be a good place to start. 
> 
> Naturally, Lexa is from the Trikru clan. Her parents had both played their parts in the clan’s protection and prosperity, but her father was set on horse farming, and the Trikru lands did not offer good grazing pastures. When Lexa was four, they moved to a small village on the outskirts of Maelin where they borrowed money and started a ranch. Their outsider status had them mostly keeping to themselves, but her parents were industrious, and their horses soon earned a reputation as well-trained and hardy. Lexa grew up with a good education, a love of books and horses, and a pride in her heritage cultivated by her parents’ tales and quiet, steadfast integrity. 
> 
> When she was thirteen a plague ravaged Polis and both her parents succumbed. Lexa, although she’d refused to leave the house during their 9-day illness, did not even break a fever. But her haleness brought her little comfort. After their deaths, the ranch was sold to pay off the creditors and, despite her protests that Trikru was where she belonged, Lexa was sent to live with her second cousin in Lunn. 
> 
> Sending a girl to school was not a luxury he was willing to provide for, although he was more than thrilled to learn she could read, write, and keep track of the numbers that boggled his mind. She became his clerk and his business went from borderline bankruptcy to marginally lucrative. Life was dreary for Lexa, though she did her duties assiduously lest anyone think a Woods unworthy of their board. When she was sixteen Costia walked into a store to buy some ribbon and a ray of sunshine cracked through her walls. A shy friendship turned to book-lending and afternoon walks, and finally stolen kisses and fervent vows of forever.
> 
> When Costia accepted Highcliffe’s marriage proposal, Lunn became unbearable and Lexa, broken and rudderless, sought out the only foundation she had left, her heritage. She decided to seek out the Trikru battalion. But she was tired of being seen. Who she was had ostracized her as a child and proven unworthy of the women she loved. She wanted to disappear, and the best way to do that was as a man amongst men. 
> 
> Except when she arrived at the Indra’s camp it took Anya, the officer in charge of her training, all of three minutes to see through her ruse. Being a woman didn’t matter there though. She was hit just as hard and judged just as fairly. Her skill and fierceness in combat, as well as her natural ability with the camp’s few horses, soon earned her the respect of her fellows (who were not about to respect her just because they’d known her parents). When a call came for riders at the front, following a record number of deaths and captures, she and a small band of Trikru soldiers, Anya, Lincoln, and Gustus among them, left Indra’s band for the main force. 
> 
> At this point, much to the eyerolls of her companions, she decided to resume her male identity. There were only a few dozen women in the army at this point, predominately in the Trikru camp. While she would’ve been allowed to serve as a woman, it would have been more like a constant performance, seesawing between proving her right to be there and warding off their jeers and unwanted advances. Although she had rediscovered a sense of purpose and duty, even pride in her skills, truth be told, what happened with Costia had wounded her deeply and she was not ready to be exposed. 
> 
> She kept William, the most common male name at the time, and Copac, a nod to her heritage. It was a lot easier to keep her identity a secret in the army when those closest to her knew and would cover for her. As she rose in the ranks, they rose with her, and none questioned their place. They were the fiercest in battle and had an eerie knack for outthinking their enemies. Soldiers vied do be in their division long before Lexa became commander.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke pushes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added a bit of Lexa's backstory to the last chapter a couple days after posting it, in case any of you missed it and want to have a peek.

Dear L., 

It is finished. 

You were right to warn me, the living do clamor on. Would that I could simply shut the door on life for a month or two. People speak of the pain and loss of death, but none tell you just how frantic it is. All at once there are a thousand and one decisions that cannot wait. I thought the madness would end after the funeral, but naturally Papa's affairs were not entirely in order, and all must have their dues. Perhaps it is just as well though. I am afraid of what I would find in the silence.

But you know of course. You have felt my loss twofold and I grieve for yours as well as mine. Is it horrid that it brings me comfort, knowing we have both supped from death’s chalice of pain? If so, I do apologize. I am not myself. 

At least, not a self I am yet familiar with.

The Blakes have been kind enough to allow me to meet with their estate manager, Mr. Bowles, and though Skydon Hall is far more modest than what he is used to, his advice on managing the tenants has been invaluable. Mother of course thinks it unseemly that a woman should run the estate, but it does not keep her from wanting a say in every detail. T’would be so much easier if she would either see to it herself or else leave the managing to me. This strange, in-between state of feigning disinterest and then muttering her disapprobation when I take the reins has me bordering on madness. Still, we must push on. It's not as if we have the means to hire someone to manage the estate for us. The loss of father’s income will be quite a blow, and I am left with the hard choices of which tenants to keep and which staff must be let go. It’s a vulgar business, hardly worthy of a period of mourning, but it cannot wait if we are to keep the house. 

Mother has also insisted we go through his things, claiming there is no point letting them uselessly gather dust. I suspect it is less the dust she fears so much as the unwanted memories they might inconveniently spring on her. Either way, they have mostly been packed up, with the exception of his watch, which I’ve taken to wearing, although it runs slow and is only useful as a rough approximation of the time. He was fond of the old thing, and I believe I've inherited that fondness. 

I think mother resents him for leaving us, for choosing a stranger’s life over his family. She is determined to blame him for his own fate. I suppose anger is one way of mourning, of finding our new reality bearable. 

For my part, the herculean task of teaching my limited mind to keep the estate has left little time for much else. I could not even tell you who I am now. I am duller, to be sure, number. An empty creature that sets diligently about her business, craving the comfort of menial tasks. I still cannot cry. Does that make me inhuman? What is human, in any case? Are there certain sentimental requirements? And if one lacks those, what does that make them? Is my inability to mourn freakish? In any case, I have no time to find out. 

I lie awake at night, too exhausted to sleep, nothingness churning within me. Perhaps this is all I am now. 

But what of you? You have written, yes, but it is nearly a month since I have had actual news of you. Are you well? Tell me of your command and the challenges you face, for mine surely pale in comparison. Tell me you are whole and safe, and I shall sleep a little easier. 

Yours,

C.

November 1835  
Lord Jacob Griffin, a baron and scholar, was well respected and liked by his peers and the Griffins were at the heart of Lunn’s high society, despite having moved there when Clarke was already in her teens. However, this was mostly due to their elite pedigree and entertaining company, rather than any claims to fortune. Lord Griffin, eternally more interested in the sciences than economics, had never been overly cautious with money, a fact his relatives took full advantage of. It is rumored that the Griffin’s move to Lunn from the more glamorous Maelis was necessary following a business venture gone bad that cost him nearly half his fortune (though his brother, and then business partner, seemed to have emerged with his finances nearly intact). Jacob’s income as a professor at the local university, as well as the returns on their few investments, would have been enough to support a lifestyle nobles at the time would’ve deemed ‘moderately comfortable’. But the loss of his salary, and the added costs of the funeral, would’ve set the Griffins back enough to make keeping their estate afloat a challenge.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa ponders humanity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sleep deprived today so I can't tell if this is utter nonsense but happy V-day, my lovelies.  


Dear C.,

I do not think there is a specific list of requirements to being human, <strike>other than the basic biological ones that determine our species</strike>. I am no philosopher, but it does not strike me as a concept that holds a set definition. It seems rather more like an amalgamation of all the things humans have done, and continue to do, since the dawn of time. Thus, being ‘more human’ would simply mean that your actions and feelings are more similar to that of those <strike>recorded</strike> experienced by a greater number of other humans and being ‘less human’ to those of fewer. But is being like the presented version of most humans always more desirable. Are not heroes also ‘less human’ than others? Yet we exalt them as embodiments of 'true' human virtues and try to shift the concept of humanity towards that. As well, have not the manners through which we express our humanity changed over the centuries? Are we then more or less human than those who came before us or those who will come after?

I do not mean to carry on so, I merely wished to convey that your feelings about your father and the manner in which you mourn him are not right nor wrong. They are yours. And they are human and natural because you are. Do not berate yourself for feeling too much or too little; simply be. The tears will come or they will not, and your love and devotion to your father will remain unchanged regardless. You are magnificent, C., and I sincerely believe that if humans were more C then our World would be much improved. 

I am sorry to hear that your estate is not as it should be. These matters do weigh on the mind and steal sleep. I have no doubt that you are more than up to the task of managing it, however. If it can be done, you will find the means. Thus, I hope only that the means are there to be found. 

There is not much that I can say of myself, other than that things are progressing in an acceptable fashion. I have charged Trikru officers with the training of over half the new recruits, and the results are better than I had anticipated. I do pour over my plans rather obsessively and rehash them again through the night once they are made, but I am ever more confident that Azgeda will soon be brought to heel. My role as commander also feels less strange than it once did. It is lonely, but then solitude has clung to me throughout my life. I have always been better suited to duty than company. Perhaps it was meant to be.

Alas, once more, I find myself at the end of a letter with the feeling that I have offered a convolution of ramblings rather than the comfort you deserve. I apologize for my clumsiness. Let me at least assure you of my affections and the joy your letters bring me. You have in me a most devoted <strike>albeit socially inept</strike> friend and should you need me I would do all in my power to assist you. 

Yours,  
L.

December 1835  
This letter was written during a time of relative quiet on the front, interspersed by the occasional wary skirmish. Copac took advantage of it to restructure the center force and prepare for what would be his world-changing winter campaign. For him to openly express both affection and devotion to Griffin from such a distance and with the literal fate of his country in his hands was a testament to the depth of his attachment to her. Men of Copac’s standing did not give such professions lightly, as doing so was akin to an informal vow to aid her on his honor if she called on him.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke prepares to winter with the Jahas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been writing a lot for work recently. I might be using up what little mojo I had.

Dear Lupus, 

Clumsy? You? Never think it! Your lettering on the envelope alone is enough to bring a rare smile to my face, and the words within never disappoint. You are a warrior with a philosopher’s mind, my friend. You say you are not suited for company; I say I would happily cross the country to spend my time in your presence. 

I am glad all is well on the front. It sounds as though you have things well in hand I cannot think of a more apt commander and the gods no doubt smiled upon us when you were chosen. Though for all the glory I am sure you are poised to accrue, I do hope the current lull in fighting extends into a cease-fire and eventual peace. For all your bravery, I would prefer you to write me from a place where your daily occupation is not escaping death.

Mother has decided we will go away for the holidays, and as much as I despise the thought of constant society in my current state, I cannot imagine being here without Father and so am secretly relieved. Winter was his season and as the days shortened and frost stiffened most spirits, his smile would broaden. When I was a child, he began the tradition of waking me on the first snowfall of the season, no matter how late. We would rush out with lanterns, hastily wrapped yet warm as we galloped in the snow. I pretended to have grown out of it in recent years, but he woke me all the same. I would give anything to be woken again this year and find his eyes sparkling with far more mischief than is proper for a gentleman. 

The Jahas are pleasant company, although their estate will no doubt be overrun with visitors. Being spotted in their circles is a sure way of gaining access to higher society, and they always seem to be politely accosted on every outing by those vying for an invitation. I expect to see as little as I can of them though. Wells Jaha and I were childhood friends, and if he is not much changed, he is sure to have at least three escape plans for every event. It will do me good to see him. He is the kind of friend that does not require entertaining, though always willing to provide it. On can sit with him and read in silence, undisturbed yet comforted by his presence. I believe I have missed him more than I imagined. 

I have asked Raven to look in on the estate in my absence. All pressing matters have been seen to and most of the staff have been given two weeks off. She was more than willing to take on the task. I suspect she appreciates having an excuse to escape her own family’s revelries when decorum allows it. 

You must think us awfully frivolous, carrying on so while you risk your lives for our safety. I tried speaking at the town council just this week to appeal for better support of the war effort. Naturally, they reminded that the opinions of women were not heard on council matters and suggested that thoughts of war might cause my delicate female head to addle. Had my mother not pulled my out my delicate female mouth would’ve served him a string of profanities. I know it is not my place, but if others will not advocate for you perhaps it should be. I shall use my time in Maelis to convince those who will listen, preferably men who have been born with the rights to actually accomplish things. What I meant to say was, I could never do what you do, but I do try to get you what support can be got. 

Well, Commander, I must seal this letter that George might deliver it to the post and return before we are scheduled to leave. Be well. You have my thoughts always.

C.

December 1835  
Lord Thelonius Jaha, viscount of Muirshoul, and his notoriously charming wife, were the center of Maelin high society. Their winter solstice balls especially were the talk of the nobility. Baron Hertforth described it nicely when he wrote, ‘The solstice ball was an event fit for royalty, and one or two were certainly present. Muirshall’s entire façade was lit up with lanterns and light snowfall gave one the impression of stepping into a winter wonderland. The courtyard boasted a dozen new marble statues of unrivalled beauty. Magnificent supper. Thirty wines from Spain, France, and Portugal. Excellent whiskey. Pastries so delicate Sir Claydon remarked they’d been stolen from the gods. Exotic fruit from isles I could not pronounce the names of. One hundred and seven guests in all. Splendid entertainment. Over half had the luxury of staying all night and the revelry continued till early afternoon the next day; cards, cigars and splendid gambling leaving all in high spirits. It is not in vain that their invitations are the envy of the city.’


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa sets out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are apologies for delayed updates even accepted at this point? Wish I'd had time to update during Clexa week. Was blown away by all the beautiful work of my fellow creators.
> 
> I hope you all are staying safe.

Dear C.,

I am glad to hear you will be wintering with friends. Grief is a pitiless master and company can at times keep it momentarily at bay. May it do so for you. I am also heartened to hear of your attempts to rally aid on our behalf. Woman or not, you are a force of nature and I’d willing put my money on you in any fight. We are fortunate to have you as an advocate and any supplies you do manage to wring from the council will be most valued. 

This letter will be regrettably brief. Not only does time elude me these days, but I dare not risk allowing my hand to run away with my thoughts. My mind churns with musings that cannot be given away. Which brings me to the crux of the letter <strike>yes, this letter has a crux, if you can imagine it</strike>, in the next few months your letters may see some delays in reaching me and my replies will be yet more infrequent. ‘Tis not for any weakening of my esteem for you, but the demands of my position may make me temporarily more difficult to reach. I tell you only so you do not lose sleep on my behalf. I entreat you not to cease your correspondence, for any words penned by your hand will surely bring me joy to read, and will be rendered ever more precious for the obstacles they must soon surmount in reaching me. 

Know that though our correspondence be briefly disrupted, you are always in my thoughts. 

Yours,  
L.

December 1835

Based on the postmark, this letter was written on the eve of Commander Copac’s notorious campaign into the heart of Azgeda itself, an endeavor that nearly cost him his life and that of the seventy-three strong (give or take a scout or two) force that he led in. This risk-it-all sleuth mission to capture the Haldberg Pass, which to this day can be found in any tactical textbook worth its salt, was attempted just before the heavy snowstorms of January and calculated to use the early snowfalls to cover their tracks. At the time of writing this letter, Copac would’ve been passing on the leadership of the bulk of his army to Anya, much to the latter’s protests who, considering her character, likely could not imagine a worse fate than her Commander charging into the heart of danger without her. 

A letter from General Gustus, a personal friend of the Commander’s and one of the (un)lucky few chosen to accompany him on this mission states that, ‘It may seem brash to the citizens of Polis for Heda* to lead the onslaught themself, but they** lead as they always have, bearing the brunt of danger ‘ere asking their men to follow. Thus, the greater the foe, the more brazen they become, and our honor in fighting on their battlefields is multiplied.’ 

*Heda was the Grounder word for Commander  
**When the title of Commander was bestowed on a warrior, it was Grounder custom to refer to them as ‘they’ rather than he/she. To them, Commanders retained mythical status and legends spoke of Hedas as the embodiment of all the Commanders who had fought before them, possessing the strength and wisdom of multitudes. These legends were no doubt further perpetuated by the commanders themselves, what with their signature warpaint and ghostly war standards, to inspire the devotion and loyalty of their troops.


	23. Chapter 23

Dear L.,

I thank you for your preemptive reassurances, though I must admit my mind is now more restless than ever. I try to picture you, my racoon-frog resplendent in your battle garb, elegantly bustling hither and thither, pouring over maps and battle plans, dispensing orders, leading your army, flinging your noble self into harm’s way, eating, waxing philosophical as you steal moments to gaze up at the stars. 

In all honesty, you have my awe. I make light of it to ease my worries. The other day I asked the Jahas' head guard if he would teach me to fight in the event that I might find myself one day on a battlefield. He looked at me dubiously, and when my earnestness did not wane, proceeded to reassure me that our valiant troops at the front would see to it that the war never reached us. I did not tell him that I was not preparing for the war to reach me, but rather considering reaching the war. So you see, Lupus, I remain as yet woefully untrained, and you had better return safely from the front or I cannot be held responsible for any reckless rescue missions. 

Notwithstanding, as you have warned me the waiting may increase, I shall cultivate patience <strike>a virtue I have been most unsuccessful at cultivating in the past</strike>. Won’t mother be thrilled. 

We are home now, and I was pleased to find the estate in good state. Raven has made some keen observations on how to more efficiently run it, and I am almost hopeful at the prospect of enacting them. I miss Father still. I think I always shall. But it is slightly less overpowering and I find I have the strength to act now. 

You’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve received word from Lord Collins this morning and it appears the council has ruled in favor of sending more supplies to the front. I hope the arrive in good time. I am proud to have done our cause some small good. His letter was uncharacteristically warm, and I hate to think he sees my asking him for help as my warming to his son’s courtship, which he made a point of mentioning. It is ever a game of quid-pro-quo with nobles. But I am a shrewd player. 

I know you have warned me of your possible silence, but I do hope to hear from you shortly.

Yours,  
C.

January 1836


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke writes of winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven't proofread this one. Sorry if it's a little rough.

Dear L.,

I apologize for the deluge of letters and imagine you are not yet at liberty to write. I would restrain myself, except our ‘conversations’ have become one of my favorite and most self-indulgent habits, and despite your silence, I cannot bring myself to put it aside. Even when I am not writing, I find you often in my thoughts. I wonder what you would make of this or that, what details of my surroundings your keen eyes would pick up, the tone and rhythm of your voice. I think perhaps you wouldn’t talk much, but when you did it would be worth hearing. 

You must think me foolish. 

‘Tis an artist’s folly, I’m afraid. I cannot draw or paint a thing until it is alive to me, and ‘ere it truly lives in my mind, my imagination must turn it this way and that, drawing in the corners, coloring in the shades, prodding and stretching what I have until I know it so well it pulses within me, beyond words and thoughts; a feeling so vivid that only art can be its medium.

I cannot paint you yet, but still the will to have you live inside me burns hungrily. 

I hope you are keeping warm, wherever you are. It has snowed so heavily here in Lunn that the roof of one of our tenant’s farms collapsed last week. Luckily, none were harmed, but when I heard they were trying to keep warm in the barn while waiting for the roof to be redone, I had them brought up to the house and put in the spare servant’s room. I’ve been down to the farm myself to survey the damage. The entire thing caved in, leaving only one of the supporting beams intact. Having it redone in this weather is an awful business. Several of the other farmers have come to help, but it's still slow going. The stones are so covered in snow each morning that it takes the better part of two hours to clear the work area before any progress can be made, and even then, every step is slow and unsure. I have a learned a great deal about roofing in the last few days. It shall come in handy if I ever find myself down on my luck and in need of a hastily constructed abode. 

I feel Mr. Crott (the tenant) is much unsettled by having to accept our hospitality, but I assured him that it was nothing but business on my end, as I cannot collect my rent if the farm is not operating. He seemed to accept this explanation. His daughter is certainly enjoying her stay at the house and I fear when she leaves my two best hounds will follow her down, for she has stealthily captured their unwavering affecting with a few strategic scraps. Naturally, mother objects to me riding down there every day, saying only someone with a death wish would dare the icy cobbles. But our gig is steady enough and George is an apt driver. 

Snow-induced destruction aside, I think I am developing quite a knack for running this place. We have good land and good people running it. Father was rather to preoccupied with his readings and essays to give much thought on the efficiency of it, but with Mr. Bowles’s counsel and Raven's rather unorthodox ideas, I do believe we can manage for now without having to rush to the first heavy-pursed suitor for succor (not that Mother will ever see it that way). I find I enjoy the challenges of running the place. It gives my mind something to do, although my friends are becoming far too comfortable in a world where I am too busy to play a prank or two on them. I shall have to find the time to perturb their comfort soon. 

Here I go again, prattling away. It is selfish, really. If I speak to you as though all is well on your end, I can almost believe it. No, but I trust your skill and experience, Commander. I only fret a little because you are far and silent. Warrior on, my dear Lupus, and though it would cheer my heart, do not rush to write to me, for I imagine your efforts are needed elsewhere. Only think of me a little, now and then, and perhaps if the fates smile on us, it’ll be just when I’m thinking of you. 

Yours always,  
C.

January 1836

Commander Copac was, at this time, in the throes of his campaign, and it is likely that this letter and the one (or ones, as alluded to by Griffin's "deluge" for it is not known if all the letters survived their journey) written before it did even reach him at the front, but were entrusted into Anya’s care until a messenger could be risked. 

Griffin flourished as the head of her late father's estate. And though she was described as more 'private and given to brooding' than before, all accounts point to her turning her substantial energy and intelligence into making her father's legacy an object of pride.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke waits (for her people).

Dear L.,

I know one month is not so very long a time, and yet, I cannot stem the unease that chills me when I think of you. I have gone as far as to inquire after you in the town. Well, not after you specifically of course, but after any morsels of news from the front. <strike>I fear the postmaster has quite tired of my face and the kind of desperate expectancy I’ve grown bad at hiding.</strike> There is nothing. The bulk of the army waits out the winter, there are a few skirmishes on the borders, supplies are needed. But nothing that could hint at your whereabouts or well-being. No great victory. No crushing defeat. No commanders bringing home peace. 

I do not know why I fear so for your life. I know you are skilled and prudent. I know you have warned me that you would be absent and I was to expect delays. Still, it has become ever more torturous to sit here and wait, as if I were giving you up to the will of the Fates without even striving to keep you well and whole. Would that I could stand between you and them, daring their withered hands to touch you on pain of my fury. I wager they have not the gall. They have taken too much from me already. 

Look at me, grown selfish and possessive over you. Only, it is not entirely selfish, for does not our country’s greatest hope lie in you? Would I not then, be doing it for our people? Therefore, kindly include your whereabouts in your next missive and I shall come and beat back any foes that would dare threaten you. 

You will think me mad. And I've half a mind to burn this letter ere it is sent. But I have not too much faith in it reaching you anyways, and writing makes me at least feel like I am doing something. Perhaps I can pay for my madness by giving you some little news of home. 

The Crott’s roof is repaired and just as expected I was hard-pressed to keep my hounds from following their youngest home. I have promised her the pick of the litter come spring, and she has already composed a list of possible names from the pup, ranging from the fantastical to the foolish. Mother has begun to show some interest in the estate, or at least, to entertaining again. I think it does her good to put her mind to something. She’s invited Lord Kane and his brother over to tea next week, and perhaps his engaging conversation will distract her for an hour or two. I will make a point of being present that I might ask him of news of you, and of the best way to transport winter supplies to the front. 

Do write, if you can, dear Lupus. But if not, do not let my worrying detract you from the challenges at hand. If needed, shall endure your silence with a bravery I hope would make me worthy to call you my friend. I have every faith in you.

Yours faithfully,  
C.

January or February 1836

This letter seems less written so much as carved into the page, with darker, messier writing than Griffin's usual style. We see here two sides of Griffin—the passionate and the stoic—colliding as she grapples with her feelings for Copac during his silence, with a bit of masking humor thrown in for good measure. Accounts of Griffin over the years (see for example Martins, 2001) point to her being impulsive and red-blooded; but she also possessed an obstinate streak that lent itself to her ability to gain the upper hand through sheer stubbornness. (There is a famed account of a younger Griffin tow facing off with the local schoolteacher over her handmaid's right to sit on on lessons in the all-boys school (The young ladies of Lunn were sent to Maelis for a more 'gender appropriate' education). After being refused, Griffin enlisted Reyes's help in nailing the school door shut and then proceeded to teach 'science' in the courtyard to the boys waiting to go in. So popular were the explosion-featuring lessons that even when the doors had been opened and lessons resumed, over half the boys played truant to attended Reyes's lessons (The produce-pelting instigated by Mr. Schitz's more ill-mannered acquaintances only made the clandestine classes all the more enticing), and the ones that the teacher did manage to corral into class had little mind for anything other than the muffled noises coming through the window. Mr. Schitz was said to have held out for eight days before caving and allowing five girls per semester to attend. Reyes's popularity with the towns children never diminished.) 

  
She appears to have brought the same steely resolve to this situation. Her feelings for Copac and fear of losing him are raw, tangible, and shamelessly stated, but her grit is there too in equal measure. She is determined that if he can survive whatever dangers he is facing on his campaign, she can survive his absence and meet him strength for strength.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke despairs.

Dear L.,

There were murmurings in the town today, rumors of the front. I had it from Raven who heard it from Lacy (the kitchen girl) who had an account of it from Stewart (the delivery boy, who is quite sweet on her). Alas, what roundabout means I am reduced to. In any case, I went to see Lord Kane straightaway and he confirmed their talk.

They say Azgeda is growing bolder at the front. Something has happened to boost their morale and already they are sending small bands to rove the borders and terrorize the guards, though the snow still lies heavy on the trails. Kane says they are behaving as if they expect little resistance on our part. I told him that quite simply could not be true, even as my heart froze within me. I returned to my study and immediately a deluge of ghastly scenarios battered my stubborn hope until my pen trembles in my hand as I attempt to right. 

I want—oh, more than anything—to believe you are well and whole, but the cold, rational part of me mocks that hope, tells me it is just as likely that you have fallen and our army is in disarray. Is not a soldier’s life always at risk? And you, a commander, target on your back, selfless bravery front and center. I cannot think of it. 

Strange, how the mind works. I do not know your face or the build of your body, but I see you still. Often it is your cloak, billowing behind your noble bearing as you charge forth. But now, much as I try to cling to that image, another rises unbidden. A cloak lying bloodied on a battlefield atop a motionless form. 

<strike>I feel</strike>

I will stop now. What use have you of my penned fears? If they reach you they will hardly lift your spirits or sharpen your focus, and if they don’t, well, they will just waste another’s time. I do not know if I will write again. I see my recent letters stacked unopened, a growing pile of despair that will perhaps be buried alongside you. I cannot bear it. 

Yours,

C.

  


February 1836 

Griffin’s mood is no wonder. In early February much of Polis was in despair. Despite oaths of secrecy at the front, news had begun to trickle out that Commander Copac, the army’s shining hope, was missing after leading a small band of men into the mountain trail. Anya Du Bois was an apt leader and had no trouble keeping the army in line in his absence, but morale was low, especially in the face of mounting raids from Azgeda and fomented rumors that Copac had met his death in the mountains. On February 3rd the mountain range which served as a border between the two nations was hit with one of the worst blizzards of the century, compounding the troops hopelessness in their leader’s return.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ray of hope

All is well. 

February 19, 1836

These three words, unmistakably in the same hand that penned L’s other missives, were written in the margins of the top left corner of page 4 of The Azgeda Courier, gift-wrapped for modern day historians. Griffin's address was squeezed into the margin on the other side. Naturally, it may have been written at any time following the newspaper’s publication, but the date is likely only off by one or two days, considering the date of Copac’s victory and the events recounted in his next letter. 

It is unknown if he was in possession of Griffin’s letters at the time, though most scholars of this period tend to speculate that he received the letters a few days later when Anya returned from chasing down the last bands of Azgedans. Thus, this message likely reflects Copac’s attempt to reassure Griffin before even knowing the extent of her fears. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. *hides* The four word description is longer than the letter itself.  
I'll try for a new update over the weekend.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa's tale (at last).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it still the weekend? Hopefully the length of this letter will make up for the last one's brevity. Clarke thinks so.

Dear C.,

I am sorry for the anguish my silence has caused you. Would that the knowledge I give you now could race back and remove the shadow of the last months from your mind. I am humbled by your concern. 

Anya has brought me your letters and while it pains me to hear of your suffering, your words filled me with such a joyous, melancholic nostalgia I was forced to sit quietly with them for the better part of an hour before I could begin to formulate a reply. How I have missed you! Strange how one’s chest can be full and tight and still all aflutter. My body betrays me. 

It is early evening here, and I have settled in my room and asked to not be disturbed that I may write to you in peace. After your months of waiting, the very least I can do is provide you with a full account of my little adventures.   
I set out on the eve of the new year with a small band of warriors, intent on securing the mountain passes. It had not snowed yet very much this season, and we had hoped to sneak over the border and fortify the outposts to facilitate our passage come spring. You may think it silly for a commander to lead a clandestine attack, but you recall I have spent many a day riding these passes from one company to another, and few would be as skilled to navigate them in the heart of winter. Besides, I am the commander. My soldiers do not fight my battles for me but with me. 

All was well in the first weeks, we made good time and short work of what little resistance we encountered. By mid-January we’d established two small outposts in key locations along the trail and sent messages back to Anya for more soldiers and provisions to man them. I continued forward, with half the force I’d set out with, for a final mission. There is one point on the Azgedan side that, if held by us, would greatly stem their assays into our land. Its occupation was to be the crowing achievement of our journey. Alas, it is what they expected. 

I do not know how they suspected our presence, but no sooner had we crested the small plateau then we were set upon by a band from Ice Nation about four-score strong (more than double our numbers). Surprise was on their side, but I had chosen my warriors carefully and after nearly an hour of fighting, we had gained the higher ground with the mountains to our back, cutting their advantage. We fought seamlessly, tired warriors pulling back within our ranks to recharge so that although their troops were fresher, they expected easy victory and tired as our resistance endured. We withstood and they sustained heavy losses. Eventually they pulled back to tend their wounded and replenish. The sun hung low in the sky and we had little chance of escaping our snare that night. We piled what boulders lay near us both for protection from the wind and as an added fortification and took what little rest we could. 

They did not attack that night, nor the next day, nor for five days thence. They had taken the brunt of our first fight and were in no hurry to repeat it. And why should they? They could wait us out, let the snow and hunger weaken our strength while they sent to Owark for supplies and reinforcements. Time was on their side. On the fifth day one of Nia’s generals. newly arrived with an additional contingent of troops, stepped forward. He called for me by name, though I carried no banner. He offered us our lives in exchange for our surrender. We replied with silence. 

Some of our provisions had been lost in the battle, but we had enough for four to five more days, perhaps seven if we took turns fasting. We scanned the mountains for footholds, but even if we had managed to scale the mostly sheer face we would’ve been easy targets for their arrows. Our spirits sagged as we huddled for warmth while they waited for their prize and spoke of the glory my capture would bring them. 

Then the blizzard came. The first night we cursed the storm and pressed ourselves to the mountain for shelter. None dared sleep lest they slip inadvertently into death. The morning brought no relief. If anything the storm was gaining in momentum. Then desperation struck, and with it the recklessness that saved us. They too huddled from the storm, cold and miserable without the mountain’s craggy face to protect them. They grumbled and shivered and stamped their feet, calling loudly to each other when they could not see their own hand waving in front of them. If we could only be silent, we might be able to slip past them unawares. 

We stuck a few of our spears in the snow to give the impression that we yet stood watch. A rope was threaded through our belt hooks linking us into groups of four or five. We crept out, crouching, feeling cautiously for the edge, hoping to keep as close to it as possible without falling over. It took 17 minutes to cross two dozen meters. We met only two Azgedans and their muffled cries were hidden by the wind. Near the end, Rioka walked off the mountain and Lincoln held her fast. She bit through her tongue to hide her scream and the wind muffled the rest. Once back on the path, we heard the Azgedans on the ridge, camping out on the flatter path that led home. Our only choice was down, deeper into their territory. Two hours and one broken ankle later, we reached the bottom, white and icy snow monsters from some child’s nightmare. 

We set off for Owark. 

Perhaps it was frostbitten folly, but we counted on Azgeda having sent the bulk of their border guard up the mountain to claim their prey. What need was there to leave a large force below? Besides, to reach them without using the guarded pass would’ve taken weeks.

That is how we came to take a fortress with 27 half-frozen men and women. Owark is a small fortress, tall and round; a bare military outpost built so that a small force can hold it against a larger onslaught when the gates are barred. 

They were not. 

Messengers and food carriers had been coming in and out to bring news and provisions up the mountain. There was no reason to expect anyone but their own to return. We slipped in and in a few, mostly bloodless minutes, had unarmed the few guards that remained. After imprisoning them and barricading the doors, we settled in to wait. There were enough provisions to last the army we had slipped past many weeks. 

It took them a day and a half to reach us, shouting and cursing and blue with cold. Our bullets kept them clear of the doors, so they spread their siege out well away from the walls. Naturally, they had not taken their cannons up the mountain and they remained safely within the armory, and all the surrounding area had been cleared of trees lest battering rams be built against them, a clever move they most certainly regretted. 

Had they sent for assistance, it would’ve arrived within a week, but they would not risk their pride. Queen Nia likely did not expect a report from them until early spring, by which time they hoped to have starved us out and made up for losing us in the storm.

Sixteen days we waited, keeping watch on their battlements, sleeping in the guard’s rooms in short shifts. Fortuitously, the soldiers we’d sent for grew suspicious when they reached the plateau only to find it empty. They crept stealthily down the mountain to find the strange sight of Azgeda laying siege to its own fortress. When Anya received word of this her quick reasoning proved itself once again. She arrived with the pale dawn on the nineteenth day. 

What chaos the Azgedans were thrown into by sound of her Trikru horn. They scurried, half asleep, to form a line of defense which Anya’s wolves cut down like a scythe through wheat. We formed our own band and rode out on borrowed horses to trap them between us. 

It was over in an hour. 

We had few casualties and spared what lives we could, populating Owark’s prison. But I did not witness the end with my own eyes.

I had abandoned my empty revolvers for my faithful blade and was cutting a path from our band to Anya’s main force, when the shot came from the left. At first, it did little to slow me and we forged on, spending the pent-up energy weeks of confinement had bred in us. Then the battle slowed as they began to flee, first in small, furtive trickles, and then full on retreat when our fury did not let up. I reached Anya then, held out my arm to grasp hers in greeting, when the dizziness gripped me and I crumpled to the floor. 

I woke in a scream of pain hours later as Gustus rooted around in my gut for the bullet, my arms and legs were held down by the iron grips of my honor guard. A damp cloth was pressed to my face and consciousness escaped me again. I was not fully lucid for the next three days, delirious with the infection induced fever. Gustus has some training, but had not the proper tools, and I was later informed they feared for my life in the first days.   
When my mind was well enough to converse, I found that Anya had sent for the rest of the battalion, who would join the others in expanding our fortifications. 

We have done it, C.! Not only have we secured the mountain passes, but a fortress on the other side! It may be the loss of blood, but I am dizzy with optimism and possibility. A messenger from Azgeda arrived with orders for the generals and several copies of the local newspaper, unaware of what had befallen the keep. I relieved him of his lot and sent him back again. Nia will no doubt have heard of our victory by now. But what will her move be, now that the war is on her territory? 

Regardless, I do not intend to wait for it. I have convened my war council and we will spend the next days poring over maps and strategies. Morale is high and the troops work with open faces and easy jests. We all vibrate to the same tone the heralds the same overarching thought: the war has changed! 

Dearest C., I am sorry that the wait was long and sapped you of hope, but hope again now! Oh, hope, I say! Let it bloom in your heart like an early crocus. We have taken the war across our borders and I dare say Polis is safer than she has been in years. 

Ever yours,

L.

P.S. I had every intention of replying to the news you sent me in your letters, but the length of my tale has tired me out and I dare not delay this letter any further. Thus, I will say only that it does me good to know you and yours are well and it was with great joy that I read of the goings on at your estate. Do continue to write to me of your life—that is, if you can spare me the time. It brightens a soldier’s dreary life so to imagine you in the life you build for yourself.

February 1836

The capture of Owark was the catalyst the turned the tide in Polis’s favor and sped the war to an early end. It was, perhaps, not as early an end as the commander had hoped for, but having a fortified outpost within enemy borders from whence to launch attacks undoubtedly shortened the war by many months, if not years. 

This letter is a rare personal account of the battle from one of its key players and remains the only authenticated account of their escape from the Kurig plateau. Prior to its discovery, it was suspected that the Azgedan forces, after being tipped off by a spy in Copac’s camp, scoured the mountains for days without finding the commander’s band, who were thought to have hidden in a cave until they passed. Due to this letters near-mythical account of Copac’s corner and escape in the blizzard, its authenticity was questioned by a number of sources until, in 1978, a pardon, written and signed by Copac himself, was found among the documents of an old deserter. It took three handwriting experts, who are none to eager to agree, to verify the letters authenticity before it became widely accepted as fact.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke is relieved

Dear L., 

I have read your letter a hundred times and more and still I cannot part with it. I hold the script that only your hand can make, tracing the letters that you have touched, until I fear I will rub every trace of you from the page. Even that does not fully stop me. I’ve sewn a little pocket into my dress that I might carry it with me always. When a hint of the old fears return, as they often do, so accustomed had they become to having their way with me, I reach for it, this proof of your life, and let its steadying weight comfort me. 

How I long to touch you, to place my hand against the solid plane of your body and assure myself of its realness. Would that I could touch the very life of you, that it might revive the part of me that died in fear of your death. 'Tis a strange way to discover how much of myself I have given to you, watching it wilt and fade as the likelihood of hearing from you again dwindled.

I think relief must be queen of all feelings. We speak of joy and contentment, of excitement and hope, but all these pale before relief; that sweet, sweet freedom from the terror that was, that could have been. The lightness of it. All at once you realize the depth and weight of your dread as it lifts and you stand, tottering in incredulity, empty in its absence, weeping at the confluence of past pain and present joy. 

But are you truly well, my wolf, for your wound sounded most grievous and you but mentioned a brief convalescence? Are there doctors there and proper medicines? Do tell me truly, for if you lack the care you require, I shall cross the mountains myself to bring them to you myself. I cannot bear the thought of you falling to infection after such a victory.

And what a victory it was! I am in awe of your courage and strategy! What a shock you must’ve given them when they returned to find their own gates shut fast against them! And what luck that you did not find them barred when you first arrived. The gods must love you, Lupus, and they’ve chosen their champion well. 

News of your victory has reached Lunn, and the town speaks of nothing else. Everyone has heard something from someone who knows someone else who might’ve been there, and so they stitch together the tales they have heard, measuring them against each other for veracity and insight. I have heard a great many things about your supernatural strength and stature, as well as the depths of your wisdom that, if I were to believe only a fraction of their tidings, I should think Athena herself had taken on mortal form to lead us to victory.

I must admit though, I have been overly possessive of your letter to me. I have read most of it to Raven only, and parts to Lord Kane. The rest I have kept as my own private treasure. You must think me foolish. But when I sit at dinner and hear Bellamy Blake and Finnley Collins argue about what tools you used to burrow through the mountain under the Azgedan guards, pitting their ‘inside’ knowledge against each other, I can smile at their assertive ignorance. But mostly, I am filled with awe to think that I know you in this small <strike>dare I say intimate</strike> way. 

You are all that they say you are; fearless and loyal and wise, a commander such as we have not seen since our wars began. I know that more than most. The more I know you, the more I see all that you are and the more I want to raise my voice above the chorus of praises to you in the streets and say, ‘Yes! Oh yes! Our commander is all of that, and more. There is a gentleness and a kindness that lives alongside the strength and will to victory. There is compassion and fairness, fear too, and its mastery. And a secret love of the stars.’ I want to tell them all of your greatness, and yet, more still, I want to press this bit of you that you’ve given me to my heart and there guard it from all others, that none may touch the little trust you’ve placed in me. 

Yours in relief,

C.

March 1836

There is evidence that Griffin did not wait for Copac’s reply before mobilizing supplies. In the first week of March there arrived at Owark a shipment of medical supplies on Lord Kane’s authority. Considering Griffin’s friendship with Lord Kane and her mention of having discussed Copac’s letter with him, it is not too great a leap to think she may have been behind it. 


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa is healing (impatiently)

Dear C.,

I thank you for your words. As always, they make me happier than I have any right to be. And if my living has brought you relief, well then, it is all the dearer to me. 

But my lady, how you flatter me with your regard! I am tempted to dispute your high opinion, lest one day you should discover my faults and rue your affections. But I dare not now, for I fear I have grown far too fond of your faith in me. Rather, I shall strive all the harder to be a fraction of the impossible hero you imagine.

I mend well enough, though far too slowly for my liking. Gustus is ever at my side, nagging me like an old hen and refusing to let me do even the simplest tasks. At first, I waited for reprieve, thinking surely at some time he must rest and then I can spar, lest the Azgedans arrive to find their rival weak and sluggish. Alas, when he leaves he sets Lincoln on ‘recovery watch’ and I have no chance. I’ve warned them that it may yet turn into the kind of injury that causes its host to strike down those who hover closest. They have yet to show an appropriate level of fear at my threats.

But yes, I heal, and loathe the process thereof. 

I must also thank you for the medicines you’ve sent (for they said Lord Kane on them, but I fully suspect it was you). We have set up a small infirmary in one of the halls, and our wounded fare better than ever, what with warmth and proper supplies. 

Anya and Lincoln have successfully been leading forays into the surrounding villages, and we now control a number of settlements along the mountainside. The Azgedans are fierce fighters, but when the fighting is on their own turf they are also concerned with preserving their lands and livelihoods, and thus much more willing to strike bargains when badly outnumbered. I suspect they are as tired of this war as I am and wish only to continue their lives. What care they for more land across the mountains where they would never journey anyway?

Aside from the odd skirmish, we have not yet encountered Nia’s army in force. I had thought her retaliation would be swift and braced for it, but she seems to have done the opposite, gathering her armies further inland.  
Morale is high among the troops. They boast and bluster, claiming Nia has withdrawn in fear after witnessing our might. I fear I know better. Nia is no coward. If she withdraws it is only to coil as a snake that her strike might be all the more potent. I am wary and cannot, for all my musing, uncover what her plan might be. I fear she seeks to lure me deeper into her land, that she might use her knowledge to her advantage to spring a trap. I had hoped that our small incursion into her territory would be enough to rouse her in its defense, but it may be that our merciful treatment of her people has led her to change tactics. Some have urged me to sanction raids and pillaging, claiming that would bring her to face her doom. Perhaps they are not wrong. But they are certainly not right.

But tell me of you. Has spring begun her return to Lunn? Do timid shoots and early flowers flank the paths? Do you look up to welcome the sun on your face, or rush for cover from the sudden flash of a storm? It is still the heart of winter here, and I long for news of home. Or perhaps, to picture you in a place I once loved. 

Yours, 

L.

March 1836  
By this time, Copac had likely already sent the missives to Commanders Indra Arbor and Titus Halesos, urging them to join him with what troops they could, after leaving manned forts in whatever locations they deemed necessary. Arbor, having suspected the war would now be decided on Azgedan soil, had already crossed the border and was making her way to Ozark when the request came. Halesos, on the other hand, was loathe to leave his post. He recognized the significance of Copac’s victory and spoke highly of the strategy involved, but still did not set out to join him for many weeks. Experts speculate that he feared joining the front would mean putting himself and his forces under Copac’s command. Not only was it Copac’s field of battle, but he commanded the bulk of the army already, and Titus was not deaf to the admiration that tinged his men’s voices when they spoke of Copac’s victories. He did, of course, eventually join the front, and discovered his fears of being subject to Copac’s command to be well-founded. Nevertheless, after the war he spoke nothing but praise for the High Commander, claiming to have been the young Copac’s most loyal and devoted counselor in the final weeks, and taking a fair share of credit for Copac’s victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I signed up for Nikki Hiltz's virtual 5k for pride month and have been trying their training plan in the hopes of beating my previous times. Which means more tiredness and less writing time. 
> 
> If anyone is interested, can safely train without too much exposure to people, and does not object to the torture of running (it's terrible, I know, I won't tell you otherwise), there are still 12 hours to sign up. You can find deets on her IG or Twitter. There's a cool (gay) shirt involved and all the proceeds go to the Trevor Project.
> 
> If any of you do decide to do it come holler at me about how much you hurt.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke flees to Raven.

Dear L.,

I am glad you heal, and that, despite your best efforts, more strenuous work has been denied you. I feel I should write to both Gustus and Lincoln and ask them what they most miss, that I might send them a crateful in gratitude for their care of you. It does me good to know you have men like them by your side. I can only imagine the dreadful unease of waiting for Nia to strike, not knowing where or how it might come. But my morale and faith in you are as high as your men’s, <strike>perhaps, if I may boast a little, slightly higher</strike>. Nia may be cunning, but you are wise and have already bested her in the past. I look forward to hearing how you will prevail again.

Spring has begun in earnest here, though I have hardly had a moment to enjoy it. With better weather and the ubiquitous hope your victories have brought, townsfolk and nobles alike have begun to act like the war is all but behind us. Mother has hopped onto the bandwagon with the rest of them, insisting that we have kept too much to ourselves since Father’s death, and however will I find a respectable husband if all my time is spent knee-deep in the mud with the tenants? She’s decided, you see, that the long-term solution to our financial limitations is that I marry well, and I have never seen her take up a task with more fervor. Her every waking moment is now dedicated to pursuing my future husband, and she has insisted we accept invitations to every soiree and garden party in the area, in the hopes that we might there find him lurking. 

I must admit, Commander, that I am a coward, for I fled home after only two weeks of her badgering, once I had extracted a promise from Mr. Bowles that all affairs would be dutifully seen to in my absence. I’ve escaped to Raven’s, who has hidden me in the left wing of their estate along with her contraptions. Do you know, she fancies herself quite the inventor, and while I have often teased her for appropriating such a lofty title, after watching her work I have to say she more than earns it. Her mind sees things in ways I cannot fathom, as if her very will breathes life into them, shaping ordinary things into strange and wonderful new amalgamations. Inventing is an elegant and hard-earned form of magic.

It’s been strange, stepping out of my world and into hers. I don’t think I’ve ever been more at peace.

Most days are spent in a sort of companionable solitude. I sit in a corner with my paints but often opt for watching her work, fascinated by her utter absorption in her task. She works for hours, sometimes fiddling with her tools, sometimes sitting and staring blankly, as she tweaks the hidden plans in her mind. She carries on without the slightest awareness of my presence, then suddenly, in a burst of excitement or frustration, ropes me in her thoughts in a flurry of words I only half understand. 

After living so for only a few days I ask myself, why would anyone wed a man? Sure, they’re pleasant enough company for an evening, but soon turn vain and boorish if not constantly complimented and entertained. It’s as if their self-worth has a very short expiration date and must be constantly revitalized with continuous attention. Naturally, Mother has done all in her power to see to it that I am skilled at providing those attentions, but I loathe the role. No, I think I shall marry Raven instead, unless you, dear Lupus, return triumphant from your battles to claim me. 

It is not that there are never tiffs between us, goddess knows we can be moody and snappish at times. But we meet as equals, I am not subservient to her needs, nor she to mine. Her concerns are not more valid because they are ‘manly’, nor are my woes incomprehensible and disregardable because of their womanly nature. Instead, we listen openly, without the cumbersome weight of gender. Sometimes we understand each other, sometimes we do not, but we never assume we will not before we’ve tried. And we laugh. Often. 

If I must marry <strike>and if you ask mother I most definitely must</strike>, cannot I have a marriage like this? 

I’ve escaped to the woods today to write this letter. I wanted to be alone to better inscribe my thoughts of you. It’s strange how we think of the woods as quiet, when they teem with sounds, as if only the noises made by man are worthy of contemplation. I have spent the last hour listening, picking one sound from another, tracing it to its source is it skips through the air and bounces off trees. There are a few I am unsure of. For instance, was that a bird pecking on a tree, or the boughs moving in the wind? Perhaps one day you will teach me. 

The light is fading now, so I will end this. 

You are always in my thoughts.

C.

P.S. I’ve snuck into town to steal you a bud from the elm tree. As you see, she too has awakened this spring.

April 1836  
Over the years, Raven Reyes became a local celebrity in the town of Lunn. In her lifetime, she would go on to patent 62 inventions, though rumor has it she invented many more. From leg braces to drainage systems, she specialized in solving everyday concerns across domains. Though she was viewed as a bit of an oddball, scholars and villagers alilke came to her often, knowing she would always listen attentively to their problems, often accompanying them back to their homes to see what she could put together from the resources available. Any challenge seemed welcome to her voracious mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Rambling ahead. Leave this page now for a more pleasurable life.
> 
> I'd originally intended to write this chapter last week, and had begun thinking about what to include. In the end, I had no time that day, and only got around to writing this about ten days later. I realized that this chapter is quite a different one from what I originally planned. The main elements are there, but the mood and tone is different. What I felt and would've written that day is gone, and instead you get something tinted with how I'm feeling today.
> 
> It got me thinking about how much of writing is like this. How many books are just one version of the dozens a writer lives in their head. At the same time, it felt true to the format of this fic. Had Clarke written her letter another day, she would've had other thoughts in her head, or set out the same thoughts differently. These letters are just glimpses into her thoughts about and feelings for Lexa, which branch out in hundreds of different ways the more she thinks of her.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa is nostalgic.

Dear C.,

I’ve half a mind to ride straight into Nia’s capital and demand a parley to discuss the terms of peace, if only that an end to this war would allow me fly to your side and spirit you away from the suitors that beset you. My intentions are strictly honorable, of course. I too have no desire to marry a man, and thus extend my hand to you in solidarity to facilitate your flight. Tis apparent it is the only chivalrous course of action.

Alas, I do not think I would find Nia there awaiting me, nor, if I am being honest, amenable to negotiations at this stage. So, I’m afraid I must continue with my quest to find a way out of this war and leave you to your own defense. Although, it would appear that your cunning is more than up to the task. 

I am pleased you have Raven as a refuge. She sounds like a singularly wonderful companion, and I am glad you have found in her the peace you deserve. The ease and connection you speak of are rare and enviable, and I see not why you should trade it for the discomforts you foresee in marriage. You are right to chase the path you want rather than settle for becoming a passive spectator of your own life.

I wish I could write to you of my days, but anything of any import cannot be spoken of, and I have scarce had time for anything else. I heal well and have begun my physical training again, with Gustus’s grudging acquiescence. I had not realized how much I missed putting my body through the paces, and the satisfaction of sparring again more than makes up for any twinges of discomfort. 

Despite the rush of my days, I do steal a few moments to think of you, just as sleep is fading and the day’s demands have not yet begun their clamoring. I like to picture you in the woods, musing amidst the trees as only you can. I wonder what new strange and wonderful thought has struck you today and who you are sharing it with. I find these minutes of quiet devotion empowering, and I am better able to face my duties with thoughts of you still playing in my mind.

I cannot thank you enough for the elm bud. Tis strange, how we think we’ve given up a home that has hurt us and are now happier for it, only to find, when faced with a memento, that we love it still despite ourselves. I have pinned it inside my cloak, just above my heart, and wear it as a kind of talisman to ward of danger. How quickly this self-proclaimed skeptic, commander of armies, renounces logic to believe in the magic of an object you’ve touched. Do not tell my soldiers or I shall soon be unseated and forced into early retirement.

Yours faithfully,

L.

April 1836  
Copac was right in his assessment that Nia would not be found in her capital. Since the capture of Owark, the Ice Queen had been hurriedly amassing her forces and was even then riding to her borders to root out what she called the ‘vermin invasion’. Brutal, merciless, and slippery as ice, this formidable matriarch is unquestioningly the greatest leader Azgeda ever knew. More feared than loved, she appealed to the Azgedans’ naturally proud natures with promises of greatness and contempt for the ‘fat, lazy lands to the south’ she viewed as nothing more than preying grounds. Her creed was, ‘win or die’, and her warriors lived it, knowing all too well that it was preferable to die in battle than return to her in shame. Herself a formidable fighter, she sneered at the 'softness' of Polis soldiers, and was often the first to lead the charge, and it is likely this courage and willingness to risk her own life for glory that led her people to follow her despite her systemic cruelty.  
Experts largely agree that her ruthlessness dragged what could've been small conflict between neighboring states into a war that lasted several years. While Polis boasted superior numbers and resources compared to the barren northlands, few commanders dared to push into her domain, content with beating the Azgedans back past the northern boarders and waiting in the safety of their home turf for them to attack again. That is, until Copac’s daring all-or-nothing bid to take the north once and for all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felt a bit bleh this week. Sorry, gays. Not sure what this is.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke grows weary of Finn.

Dear L.,

If Nia is truly so unreasonable that she will not even discuss a ceasefire that would lead to my rescue, she is a greater tyrant than previously imagined. Perhaps I could write to her instead and threaten to send my gaggle of suitors to her doorstep. Let the prattling, indolent costumes sap her strength and she’ll be begging you for peace if only I’ll take them back. 

Only, once they leech on it’s hard to be rid of them. Why, just the other day, Raven had a small gathering and Finnley Collins got it into his head that it was his ‘solemn duty as a gentleman’ to defend my honor after Murphy made some small jest at my expense. He spent the rest of the afternoon loudly berating the guests and servants, threatening that if any of them so much as looked at me the wrong way he would have their hides for it. I told him that while his oafish behavior had no lack of charm, my honor was my own to defend, thank him kindly, and that his honor did but sully mine in its bullying attempts at protection. He contested that it was his honor’s solemn duty as a gentleman to defend mine, making it quite clear that my opinion of his defense did not enter the matter at all. There was nothing left for it but to remove myself and my honor from the room lest his harassing chivalry curdle everyone day further. By the gods, Lupus, you dance with a boy once and suddenly you are his property to torment others over at it pleases him. 

But I daren’t pretend my little troubles are close to being as bad as yours. I’ve sat for a full half hour now feeling a right fool for my tirade in light of what you face. But I have so little real news of you, that I fear if I were to wait to speak only of your more noble concerns, the lines on our pages would dwindle and shrink until the bond between us, hooked carefully from one printed letter to another, faded into nothing. And so I carry on scribbling about my days in the hopes that by filling the page you will know how much I think of you. 

In truth, you are so often on my mind that I can scarce live through a scene without imagining a recast of you as the protagonist. I see you here, strong and beautiful amidst my riotous companions. You do not say much, and yet emanate such grave wisdom that their duller souls cannot help but make you their focus, measuring all their words and mannerisms as they imagine you would, vying for the smallest hint of your favor, even as they strive to feign ambivalence. 

Thus are you drawn in my imaginings, a demigod among witless, chattering men. Brighter, wiser, and nobler than anything they could hope to be. 

And to think that you think of me. That the bud I have plucked from the tree now rests against your breast. I do not swoon, but if I did, t’would be for you.

May your arm be strong and your plans secret and sure. 

Yours,

C.  
  
April 1836  
Finnley Collins, though not officially engaged to Clarke Griffin, had discussed their union on numerous occasions with her late father, and thought the entertainment of all other suitors a mere formality. Indeed, the Lunn grapevine certainly seemed to view their marriage as inevitable once the mourning period ended and chalked any apparent lack of enthusiasm on Griffin’s part up to grief at the death of her father. Thus, while Griffin expresses dismay at Collins’s protectiveness, it is likely that it was seen as only natural, if perhaps a mite overzealous, for a man to protect his woman so. Naturally, neither Collins nor the townsfolk were aware of Griffin’s correspondence with Commander Copac, nor of the growing depth of her affections and devotion to him.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke proffers an invitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay, gays. It's been a shit couple of weeks.

Dear L.,

By gods, you’ve done it! Or should I say, by your own godlike prowess. What a victory! The town is uproarious with rejoicing, your feats dancing on everyone’s lips.  
We are at peace! Truly this time. And one that could last. 

You’ve done this, Lupus. You. My hands shiver at the thought that I can write to you directly, that your heroic hands will touch these words. I have such pride to know you. You honor our Nation with your deeds and me with your friendship. 

I admit that I shuddered to hear of your exploits. Had I been there, I cannot say my heart would not have turned to stone at the terror of seeing you step forward, offering your life as a bargain for peace. I cannot say I would not have flung myself in your path to stop you. How many times now have you cheated death? Perhaps the gods truly love you as I do. Or perhaps you are simply stronger than Thanatos himself. 

Do you fear as we do, when you see your life hovering on the chopping block? Does your heart thunder at the thought of being forever silenced? Did you feel the coward’s instinct to self-preserve as you walked toward death, or have you long since silenced that more human part of you?

In any case, you’ve done it! And I cannot help the <strike>selfish</strike> hope that it is the last great exploit required of you. You see I was hoping…well, naturally, I imagine there is still a great deal to do before all is settled at the front, and I do not see you as one to leave your post before all your soldiers are also settled. But I had hoped…well I am at home again. Mother and I have come to a sort of truce on the suitor front for the time being. And I thought, seeing as you have no family, and my small one is oft more than I can manage, perhaps we could help each other. That is, perhaps you would consider coming to stay with us for a while once you are free. I do not mean to presume, of course, and expect nothing of you in return. But we have the room. And perhaps you’d like somewhere quiet to stay, somewhere amongst friends, while you chart the next chapter of your life. 

The estate is coming together nicely, and the gardens are especially lovely in summer. Perhaps you could find some peace here, and with it the beginnings of a new life. And I, well I think I do not have to tell you what great pleasure such a visit would bring me. Just to look into your eyes as you finally tell me your name. <strike>Perhaps to tell you face to face all the things I dare not put in writing. </strike>

I promise I would protect your privacy well. The townsfolk need not know their great war hero is among us. We’ll say you are some cousin or other and they will ask no more. I need not even tell Mother if you would prefer it.

Oh say you will come! 

Yours expectantly,  
C.

Early to Mid-May 1836

Griffin is not exaggerating here when she lauds Copac’s feats. Indeed, it is not too far a stretch to say that, had Copac not been there, the war may well have dragged on for months or years before a resolution was reached.  
Queen Nia descended on Copac’s camp at Owark in full force. With Commander Arbor’s troops exhausted from their prolonged march and Commander Halesos still days away, she clearly had the upper hand, despite Copac’s earlier victories. Owark’s walls could not hold the full force of Copac’s army, and though the battlements provided some advantage to their small force of archers, Nia’s fresher army coupled with the morale of being on their home turf were beginning to wear away at the Polis forces. 

After three days of skirmishes, Nia decided to prove her title as the Merciless by lining up the two dozen prisoners that had not yet been killed, promising to kill one every hour until Copac surrendered or she ran out of prisoners and attacked to replenish her chopping stock. She killed two as she made the proclamation, ‘One for the first hour and one to seal my word in blood.’

Copac immediately rode out under a white flag to negotiate. Nia’s terms: complete surrender, tribute payed from Polis to Azgeda every season, and Copac himself as a lifelong prisoner of war. As Copac tried convince her of more reasonable terms, the hour ticked passed. It is said that at one minute till the hour mark, Nia abruptly stood, reached for her knife, and yanked the kneeling prisoner’s head up.

‘I ask for single combat.’

Copac’s words echoed in the silence they created. Some accounts say his captains immediately tried to dissuade him. They were on Azgedan land. The war was going their way. A few prisoners might die, but soldiers died every day. Nia is said to have smiled, accepting the commander’s challenge without hesitation. Her son Roan, a hardened warrior who towered at least a foot over Copac’s lithe frame was chosen as the Azgedan champion.  
Details of the battle are lost to us, except for those exaggerated by poets and bards. Was it a graceful death dance as Hepasis claims, or a brutal, hour-long struggle as Clioth suggests? Were the warriors equally matched as Klarin writes, or did ‘Heda’ far surpass Roan’s brutish style, prancing and mocking him as they fought, according to Guile. Was Copac stabbed repeatedly and forced to the ground in certain defeat, or is that merely Pyrenia’s poetic license to play up the underdog angle? 

What we do know is that Copac, more likely bloodied than not, stood triumphant above a flattened Roan, spear at his throat, poised to take the final thrust, when Nia signaled the attack. Her riders, aware of their queen’s backup plan and poised for the ambush, charged into the makeshift arena, swords high, bearing down on the lone champion. Some say two, some say five or ten clashed against Copac’s desperate parries, before his defense, rallied by Anya, rode to meet them. Somehow, Copac not only managed to keep his life, but mounted a horse, spear still in hand. He broke free of the melee and charged straight for Nia. Before he’d ridden within reach of her guards, his spear flew, pinning the erstwhile queen to her chair.

Whether the guards were too stunned to react or Copac’s retreat was too swift to match is up to every historian’s imagination, but Copac’s next move is carefully documented. He flew back to Roan’s side, slid from his horse, and towered over the wounded man, reportedly guarding him from his own men’s blows. 

‘The queen is dead.’ 

The cry, ringing and steady, jostled for attention amidst the clamor of battle, but enough warriors stopped to make the next one clearer. 

‘The queen is dead,’ he yelled again. ‘Long live the king.’

And with that, Commander Copac single-handedly deposed Queen Nia and set her son to rule in her place.

King Roan, as it happened, though a hard man who spent his life fighting his mother’s wars, was tired of the life he’d been forced into and much more amenable to discussing peace. The leaders called a temporary truce to bury the dead and see to the wounded, with promises to convene for peace talks the next day. What resulted from their discussions on May 3rd, 1836 was a tenuous cease-fire, which slowly grew into a more steadfast peace as both nations warily watched the other keep its end of the bargain. 

The absence of raids soon lent itself to trade, followed by technological and cultural influences. Before long, tourism was common between the two nations, and while the bitterness of war lasted many generations, it was soon intermingled with grudging acceptance and appreciation of the other’s strengths.

Commander Copac is remembered not only as the hand that dealt the blow which made peace possible, but also as its architect and chief negotiator.  



	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Farewell

Dear C.,

I apologize for my silence. I have, as you surmised, been busy in the aftermath of Polis’s victory. But if I am honest, and I at least owe you that, that is not why I have not written. I have been thinking long of what to write, and then so dreading the writing of it that I could not bring myself to take up the pen. But it is unfair to keep you waiting any longer. 

I thank you for that kind invitation into your home. In truth, I cannot remember a time when I was treated with more kindness. The thought that you would welcome me so readily into your life moves me beyond words, so that on more than one occasion I have had to sit and steady myself till the torrent of feelings you inspire is spent.

In writing this letter of farewell, I find that you have steadily crept in and taken up residence beside my very soul in a way that...well, to be quite honest in a way that I thought I had taken every precaution against.

But farewell it must be, dear heart. You will think me a cad and a knave, and I deny neither. Nor can I ask you to believe that it is your welfare I think of in sparing you my company. 

Oh C, it is though! I beg you to at least trust me that far, even as I know I ask the impossible.

One day perhaps, you will look back from life of happiness, a good life you have built for yourself, and realize it is so. You are brave and kind and talented, and most certainly beautiful <strike>for you write with the confidence of the beautiful</strike>, and you deserve a life as grand as yourself. A life I could never give you. 

I wouldn’t dare steal it away by asking you to be mine.

I ask only <strike>if I dare ask anything at all</strike> that you do not settle, but strive, in this world that all too often threatens to squelch the dreams of women, to carve out for yourself a place where you can pursue the things that quicken your heart. For my sake, for any affection you may have borne me, do not allow your spark to be smothered by prescribed mediocrity.

I shall think of you often and ponder at the many paths your life may now take, all the while thanking fate in wonder that it has touched mine. 

C, dearest C, I am far better for having known you.

Yours always,

L

June 1836

This is the last known letter to have passed between Clarke Griffin and Commander William Copac. 

After the war, many expected Copac to pursue a career in politics. With his heroic victories and natural leadership abilities, it is easy to imagine he might soon have been elected to rule Polis. Sadly, it was not to be. Copac spent two more months in Azgeda, seeing that the wounded were tended to and cementing the alliance with King Roan, before silently and mysteriously disappearing. 

Naturally, rumors and myths surround his disappearance. The most credible one is that the wound suffered in the siege of Owark never truly healed, and was reopened in his fight with Roan, a fact that was well disguised with the help his entourage. The story goes that Copac, ever the dutiful servant of his people, carried on until he was certain that his country was safe and his soldiers on their ways home with honor, before he retired quietly to die, perhaps in the remote Trikru clan from whence his closest companions came. 

As his death was never confirmed, he could not be openly grieved. Instead, people slowly became disinterested in the mystery of his disappearance, while enjoying the lasting peace he’d won.

Griffin, it seems, may never have recovered. Poets are fond of saying that if you love deeply enough you cannot find true love again. That is beyond my purview. What I can say is that Griffin never found the partner and stability Copac wished for her in his parting letter. She never married and remained at the Griffin estate only a few short months longer before leaving for good, with the exception of a few rare visits over the decades. Some speculate that she set out in search of Copac, and it may well be so, for a smattering of letters to Reyes and the Blakes suggest that she wandered far and across Polis, though she says little as to why. 

Eventually, she settled down in a little village on the edge of Trikru in a horse ranch run by another spinster, one Alexandria Woods, who had somehow (likely through inheritance although documents on her lineage are vague) become its sole landowner. It was a humble life, void of the high company and social gatherings she was used to. She continued painting throughout her life, and some of her landscapes can still be seen scattered among greater works in the local museum. Upon her death, all the letters contained in this book, along with an old commander’s insignia, were found carefully bound in a leather case in the attic. It is generally accepted that one of Copac's friends delivered them to her after his death.

Perhaps she did find a sort of happiness in a life free of expectations. Perhaps his memory was enough to last her lifetime. Perhaps she learned to ride the horses he had loved.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, this was going to be the ending of this fic. It makes sense from the historian's perspective and, as most stories of past characters patched together from what documentation can be found, lets the readers' own imaginations take flight in filling in the gaps. 
> 
> But, I am a sucker for these two so I will add an epilogue. If you prefer to write your own ending though, feel free to stop her. After all, don't all the stories we love leave us wanting more?


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue.

April 1837

‘Commander.’

Lexa whirls to find the owner of the voice, realizes her mistake a second too late.

‘I did not take you for a coward.’

She freezes at the accusation, trying to take the measure of her cloaked accuser. A woman’s voice, low and raspy, a sure, noble bearing.

‘Polis still rings with the praises of Commander William Copac, and yet you haven’t the temerity to face me.’

She reaches for a denial, considers it, watches it die under the searing gaze she feels but doesn't see.

‘C?’

She pauses. Then the cloak is pulled back. 

Lexa takes in the once blond hair, now matted with grease and travel dust, the blue eyes that cut through her deceit like a scythe through hay, the face, far lovelier than anything she had imagined. 

‘Clarke.’

‘Clarke.’ The half whisper is reverent as it leaves her lips.

They stand there, staring. Neither daring to move lest the embodied apparition, no doubt conjured by months of longing, vanishes.

‘And this paragon of cordiality is Lexa.’

Lincoln’s voice startles them both. Lexa blushes to her ears.

‘Lexa.’

She pushes down the roiling avalanche of emotions that word on those lips pulls out. She doesn’t deserve to feel pleasure in it after…

‘How did you...’

‘Never fear, William Copac disappeared most effectively. Whether he died of battle wounds or ascended to Olympus from whence he’d first descended to lead us to victory, well, your myth is as good as mine.’

Lexa, willing herself not to blush, blushes harder. A blush of shame. She is not that hero. Never less so now, when faced with the lies that were her trade.

‘But his well-decorated companions, well, those apparently are mortals who still walk among us. Though a brief visit to Anya’s village had me fearing I might not. Did you know she still carries her sword to lunch? Lincoln here was just politely telling me he hadn’t seen you since the war, when you came in and-‘

‘I turned.’

‘You turned, Commander.’

Lexa’s eyes find blue again; less stormy now, more dangerous.

‘How did you know?’

‘There is a quality about you. You entered quietly, about your own business. Still you filled the room.’

The air grows thicker between them, imbued with layers of the unspoken. 

Perhaps that’s why Lexa can’t breathe.

Clarke’s face darkens, memories flicking through her eyes. Intimacy. Trust. Betrayal.

‘Why?’ It’s a barely-dared whisper.

Clarke scoffs at the question, eyes begging the gods to grant her grace in the face of such stupidity.

‘That you would even ask that.’

She pauses, letting the pain of those words embed themselves in Lexa’s chest.

‘Why would you leave me?’ Hurt quivers through the words.

Five words. A simple question. One Lexa has considered on countless occasions; one she has an ever-growing list of answers for. A list that now cowers and vanishes before that piercing stare. 

‘After everything, I thought...I deserved more than a well-crafted letter.’

‘You do,’ Lexa replies in a rush, making to step forward, catching herself. ‘You deserve the world. Which is precisely why I sent it.’

Her fingers dig into the palms of her hands as she wills herself to go on.

‘We started...I wrote to you under false pretenses, not by choice, mind you, but you assumed and I...I could not know who read our letters. So many times I picked up the pen to tell you, but I dared not. And then you...but you,' bewilderment furrows her brow, 'you don’t seem surprised. You called me ‘Commander.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘How?’

‘You may fight like a man, Lexa, but you do not write like one.’

The blush returns.

Lincoln scoffs. ‘She does have a point, Heda.’

At Lexa’s scowl he picks up a wine barrel and heads out the door to the back.

‘Always you knew?’

‘I suspected. Almost from the beginning. You were careful to never refer to yourself as a man.’

A half smile, unwitting. ‘I couldn’t lie outright.’

‘But you,’ there’s suddenly a smudge of mud on her boot that requires her full attention. ‘You knew and you...’

When she does manage to force her gaze back to Clarke, the look in her eyes pulls the breath from her stomach.

‘You still wrote the way you did.’ When finally she manages to finish it’s barely more than a whisper.

Clarke steps forward, sunlight catching the loose strands of her hair.

‘I still feel the way I did.’

Lexa tries to breathe, to still the fluttering thrill racing through her, the surges of hope and disbelief that war in her brain. She steps to meet her.

‘You…’

Clarke nods. A twitch in her face, subduing her exasperation.

She reaches out, hating the way her naked hand trembles as it closes the distance. She must’ve imagined Clarke’s gasp as she takes her hand. Her stomach drops.

Clarke’s gloves are sensible, sturdy and warm without the extra frills common amongst noblewomen. Lexa can feel Clarke’s eyes prickling at the back of her neck as she peels it back slowly, halfway to reveal a palm not completely devoid of callouses. 

The kiss she places there trembles with reverence. 

Clarke’s sharp inhale pulls her back. Green eyes flash up uncertainly. Did she misinterpret Clarke’s meaning?

Then her right hand comes up to lightly stroke her face. Lexa closes her eyes at the touch.

‘You’re beautiful,’ Clarke whispers.

Her breath dances invitingly against Lexa’s lips. She wills her eyes open again.

There’s less than a foot between them. Clarke’s face is open, inviting, nay yearning? Or perhaps that’s all the imaginations own lovesick head. She feels the pull willing her forward, steps back instead.

‘Well, for a man that is,’ Clarke quips.

Lexa’s mouth gapes in mock horror. She could live off the wicked twinkle in her eyes.

They’re quiet, staring unhurriedly, unbelievingly. 

Until Lexa feels the prickle of shame again. Looks down. 

‘I’m sorry.’

Clarke bites her lip, a flash of hurt, the days she spent thinking she would never find her.

‘I know I behaved dishonorably. I should’ve come to you. I should’ve laid myself bare before you and awaited your judgement. I am the coward you take me for., though‘twas not my own ruin I feared, but your hurt and embarrassment. I had not the courage to gamble with that.’

‘And so you made my choices for me, took from my the path I wished to follow. My mother would be proud.’

‘I…I was wrong.’ 

The words hang in the quiet. 

‘You were,’ Clarke replies, but there is a softness in her voice and in it Lexa finds a new rush of hope.

They’re quiet again. 

‘You must be parched. I have not even asked how long you have ridden today. Can I offer you…’

‘Lincoln has already seen to my refreshment. And I have booked a room at the inn where my horse is now stabled.’

‘I see. Well then, I suppose…’ she trails off.

What does she suppose? That she should ask her to dinner? Offer her home? Her life in penitence? What is Clarke’s plan, now that she has solved her mystery? 

At last she speaks.

‘May I court you properly?’ It’s low, hopeful, laced with the knowledge that she has no right to ask.

Clarke snorts and Lexa drops her gaze immediately.

Stupid! What kind of fool would dare ask such a thing after what she’s done? She deserves to be laughed off, and more.

‘Lexa kom Trikru, for the better part of the year I have sought you, from the icy borders of Azgeda to the wild, green heart of Trikru, looking for traces of you and then your companions, in hovels and taverns, post offices and city halls. After all I’ve been through in search of you, you would dare ask to court me? If anything, I am the courter and you the courtee.’

Her eyes shoot up, studying Clarke’s face. But it is soft and amused, teasing not mocking.

‘I..’ 

She chuckles softly at Lexa’s disbelief.

She steps closer, hands falling to Lexa’s hips, tangling in the loops of her pants, tugging slightly. 

The air is gone. Lexa stares, flung into an alternate reality where the woman she loves is not only willing to be loved, but stepping towards her and…

‘May I?’

The question is soft, sincere. 

Lexa nods. She may. She may anything and everything. She may...

Clarke’s lips are against hers, gentle, slightly chapped from riding in the wind. Lexa forces herself to go slowly despite the pressure building inside her, threatening to devour. 

They break apart too soon. She’s dazed, willing her boots into the panels to ground herself. When she pries her eyes open, Clarke is looking at her, eyes brimming with hunger.

Then her hand is at the back of her head and they’re kissing again. 

Where the other was gentle, tentative, this one is sure, filled with months upon months of longing. Possessiveness too, Clarke kisses to claim her mouth as her own, as if she doesn't know it's long since been hers. She whimpers when Clarke pressed her body flush against her, then reaches around to hold her there, staking her own claim. 

They break the kiss, foreheads resting lightly against each other, breaths quick in the stillness. 

‘I love you.' A pause, the shame not yet fully dissipated. 'I have been a terrible fool. And I love you.’ 

The confession is soft, backed up by the quiet intensity in her eyes. Lexa has never meant anything more in her life.

Clarke’s smile could blind the stars.

‘Well, that’s fortuitous, considering I came all this way to tell you that very thing.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all folks!
> 
> Thanks so much for coming along for the ride and leaving your comments and kudos to spur me on. It's been a blast and I'm sad to see it end.

**Author's Note:**

> As chapters are short, I'm hoping to update a couple times a week, mimicking the old fashioned feel of exchanging letters, but with a slightly shorter waiting period. ;)
> 
> I'm happy to make up answers to any random questions you may have about details not covered in their letters. Feel free ask about them here or on [tumblr](https://i-like-heda.tumblr.com/).


End file.
